


Best Intentions

by Jomel10



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Betrayal, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Mental Institutions, Mind Games, Oral Sex, Rape, Rape Recovery, Rough Sex, Sequel, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 86,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jomel10/pseuds/Jomel10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Worthless... In the aftermath of Sherlock's attack at the hands of Anderson, new complications arise, including Moriarty's return, Mycroft's idea of "helping" and the progression of Sherlock and John's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the sequel I promised :) Enjoy!

John yawned and closed his eyes. He rolled over, and then back again. It did him no good. It was hopeless.

What time was it? Only four a.m. God. He couldn't keep keep going over this, again and again, in his mind. He needed to sleep.

He let out a deep sigh. He should go back to his own bed. 

After all, Sherlock wasn't screaming any more.

John frowned. Whether he stayed in Sherlock’s room, or returned to his own, it would make no difference. His mind wouldn't rest, it didn't want to. He would be the same, tossing and turning, there was no way he would be able to sleep.

Not when there was so much to think about.

_'It had seemed like such a good idea at the time...'_

The suggestion had come from Mycroft, originally. That should have been the first warning sign for John. Why hadn't he argued more with the other man? Why hadn't he fought him? But no, just as John was prone to do when it involved the Holmes men, he had given in far to easily. John had nodded wearily, agreeing to take Sherlock out into the big world once more, against his better judgement as a doctor, let alone as Sherlock's best friend. But he did it anyway because, just as with Sherlock, there was very little point in saying the word 'no' to Mycroft. He wouldn’t have listened anyway. And besides, if John had been honest with himself, he had also been very concerned by Sherlock's recent erratic behaviour.

Since Anderson's arrest, and subsequent disappearance, Sherlock had hardly left their home. Only one man seemed to have the power to force Sherlock out, and that was the one man John desperately wanted Sherlock to avoid. But it was a fact that unless Sherlock heard that telling beep from his phone, alerting him to yet another text message, he was happy to keep inside, staring at his phone, not uttering a word. He would spend all his time simply waiting, and hoping, for the latest challenge from Moriarty to get off of the ground. Oh yes, Sherlock had certainly been kept busy by his favourite foe. It had seemed that his best friend's nemesis had been missing Sherlock somewhat. He had allowed him some time to get over his “misfortune,” as Moriarty had described the attack in a text, but had then found himself desperate for the Detective and him to resume their “contest.”

And, to begin with, the game had apparently done Sherlock some good. That strength, the fighting spirit that had laid mainly dormant within his friend since that _night_ had dramatically re-awakened, and Sherlock had risen to Moriarty's requests of him. He had done nothing but chase around that first week, John by his side of course, and together they had solved apparently impossible cases and riddles, leading Lestrade to a killer and a gang of dangerous thieves. They had even saved an innocent young boy’s life, by discovering that his step father was the lowest of the low and had been using the boy for shocking, sick, scientific experiments. Experiments Moriarty had been funding, naturally. John had been disgusted. But Sherlock had been excited and exhilarated by what they had discovered, and what he saw as a new victory. He had seemed almost buoyant, and John had actually dared to hope that, despite a couple of slip ups, he and Sherlock were, though cautiously, moving in the right direction.

He'd even managed to convince Sherlock to talk about Anderson once or twice.

But then, all the excitement had come to an abrupt end. Moriarty had quieted down, and Sherlock had withdrawn into himself once again, keeping low, only speaking to John, Mrs. Hudson, and, to his friend's great irritation, Mycroft. Although, especially with the latter, he had had very little choice.

Four days had passed by without a word from Moriarty, and Sherlock had quickly become bored. And boredom certainly seemed to bring out the worst in his friend.

It had taken all of John's efforts just to try and convince Sherlock to even leave his room. Even Mrs. Hudson, despite her enthusiasm, had given up trying to entice Sherlock out with promises of food or a nice glass of Tesco’s best white wine. She was still recovering from her own ordeal obviously, at the hands of a demented serial killer, and John was touched that, despite her own pain and fears, her main concern was still Sherlock's well being. John knew he couldn't be surprised that Sherlock wanted to lock himself away, hide from them all, from the whole world. Sherlock was a rape victim, which was bad enough for him to come to terms with, despite him now being the one people wanted to look out for. He didn't like it, but had accepted it. And he, and John, had to accept that recovery was going to take time. The longer Sherlock had to sit and ponder about what had happened to him, searching for the 'hows', 'whens' and the 'whys' with that incredible mind of his, the worse his mood would become. Because there was nothing to deduce. There were no more questions to ask.

It had happened. That was all there was to it. And Anderson was gone. Sherlock would never get the explanation he craved now.

Something John had not been very grateful to Mycroft for. Of course, Mycroft had never mentioned that Anderson's sudden vanishing act was his doing, but John _knew._ The man had simply ceased to exist. Only someone very important indeed had the power to do that. Someone just like Mycroft.

Now, John was stuck. It had been all right when Sherlock could throw his whole being into playing Moriarty's game, but now Moriarty had tired of their latest round, or had found a more important game to play, and had left Sherlock alone, albeit probably temporarily.

John frowned. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like how happy Sherlock was to play Moriarty’s game. It was as if his friend had become a pawn himself. And John could not forget Moriarty’s threat, although it now seemed like a life time ago that it was issued:  


_“I will burn the heart out of you.”_

Whatever game Moriarty was playing, and whatever his plans were for Sherlock, John knew that this could not end well.

Though, John knew why Sherlock had become so engrossed in outsmarting Jim. When Moriarty was on his mind, Sherlock didn't have to think about his torment. And now that Moriarty had slipped back into the shadows, his friend’s mind was clear to think once more, and all he had to concentrate on was his horrific ordeal. John knew the night of the rape haunted Sherlock at all times. The memories, the pain, the humiliation, and his despair. They revisited the Detective frequently. Sherlock would become fidgety, and would suddenly become silent in the middle of a conversation. And John knew why only to well. And there was nothing he could say to help his friend.

He would have to live with those memories always. All John could hope for was that Sherlock continued to fight, continued to _live._

And there were the dreams. Oh God, the dreams.

Sherlock still suffered at night. Every so often, violent night terrors would seize the anguished man, and the moans and whimpers would turn into loud, terrified screams. Those screams still cut into John like a knife. He would go into Sherlock's room, lay down on the bed beside him, and hold his hand tightly. Sherlock would wake up, scared and sweating, his throat sore, and he would cling onto John, and John would let him, because Sherlock needed to feel him there, needed that closeness, and the comfort. John had made a silent oath that he would always be happy to provide Sherlock with whatever he needed.

That had been four days ago. Three nights of nightmares.

That very same night had been no different. In fact, it had been worse. That very night, in fact, the terrors had been horrific. Sherlock had screamed until he could scream no more. John had left his own room, as normal, and had crept into Sherlock's. He had held his friend's hand, put an arm around him, and held him until the shouting and violent tremors had stopped. Sherlock had relaxed finally, he had even managed not to wake himself up. John could only hope his dreams were more peaceful now. John rested his hand on Sherlock's back, careful not to wake his friend. Sherlock didn't even stir.

The doctor sighed.

_No matter what, he would always be there for him._

John recalled that four days ago, Mycroft had visited. And Sherlock had point blank refused to talk to him, or even see him. He had been in one of his most obstinate moods and both Mycroft and John knew it would be impossible to talk Sherlock round when he was in that kind of mindset. And then, realising Mycroft had not left at once, Sherlock had begun to throw objects around his room, shouting obscenities about his brother. Crueller and more vicious than ever. Worst of all, he had yelled that the rape had been Mycroft's fault. That Mycroft could have stopped Anderson, prevented it from happening, if he'd chosen to.

Mycroft had paled, then gotten angry. John had apologized to Mycroft, making excuses for Sherlock and his crazed mood.

Mycroft had been very unimpressed, however.

“ _He needs professional help, Dr. Watson;_ ” He had stated. Showing no emotion, Mycroft's voice had been stern, his face hard and cold. Suddenly, it had all been just about business, nothing more. “ _Shall I arrange it, or will you?_ ”

John had pleaded with Mycroft just to allow him some more time. He had informed Mycroft that it had not even been two months since that night, and Sherlock just needed time to come to terms with what that bastard had done. Mycroft had frowned at him. He had reminded John, quite curtly, that he did have his brother’s best interests at heart, and he could provide the most expensive, the most expert care that was available.

John had crossed his arms over his chest.

“ _No one cares more than I do, Mycroft.”_

Mycroft had asked him to prove it, had ordered John to get Sherlock out of that damned room and make him do something _normal_. He'd wanted proof that Sherlock was not losing his senses, not after managing to fight back so strongly, not only against Anderson, but the Butcher also. Mycroft had been impressed with his brother's mettle. He had wanted that to continue. At any cost.

“ _I won't let him lose himself now, Dr. Watson._ ” Mycroft had leaned forward, speaking quietly now. “ _Even if I have to send him away to help him, I will not let Anderson win. For Sherlock's sake._ ”

John had felt so small. How could he had stood by and let Mycroft take Sherlock to some hospital or clinic? Sherlock would despise every second of it. He knew Mycroft had wanted to help, but it was simply not the way. All he had known that, for Sherlock’s sake, he had had to force the elder Holmes see that too.

So, he had appealed to Mycroft.

“ _Let me try. Please._ ”

And Mycroft had considered. Finally, John had won.

“ _It's not healthy for Sherlock to stay inside. Take him out, Dr. Watson. Have some fun. Both of you could do with a little relaxation time. And prove to me that you can help him get through this with no outside assistance. Do I make myself clear?”_

John had nodded and thanked Mycroft. He knew it meant a lot that the older man was putting so much faith in him. He would not let him, or Sherlock, down.

After receiving one hundred pounds from him, very graciously, John had promised Mycroft that he would take Sherlock out that night, just the two of them. He'd made up his mind that he would take Sherlock to the West End and find a bar. He knew Sherlock would hate it, and probably him, but he wouldn't take no for answer. Mycroft had been right. They both needed to do something normal, something friends were supposed to do. Not running around London, searching for the answer to the latest puzzle an insane genius had set for them.

A normal bar. A normal night. Some drinks, some music, some conversation.

That had been the plan.

_What had he been thinking?_

John closed his eyes.

That bar. Why couldn't he have chosen a different bar?

 _It was all his fault_.

XXX

Sherlock awoke with a start. As usual, he was sweating. He couldn't remember if he had been dreaming. He imagined he had, especially after the night he'd had.

He glanced to his right and saw John. His friend was curled up, face towards Sherlock. He had his eyes closed; Sherlock assumed he was asleep.

Then he felt the touch of the man's hand, grasping his own.

He sighed.

He had been screaming, then.

_Perfect._

Great plan, that was, John. Good thinking.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands.

It had all started so brightly. John, after some effort, had persuaded him to go out, to have a normal evening, with a few drinks. Despite first resisting, Sherlock had eventually resisted. He had felt it would, after all, had been rude not to have spent Mycroft's money. They had found a bar in Soho and the night had gotten off to a not too intolerable start. The boy, Jonas, and the girl, Amara, had both been pleasant enough. Their conversation had been trivial, of course, but entertaining all the same. Sherlock had deduced who the pair were, where they were from, what they did for a living, who their family was, and how much longer they were likely to be together for. John had enjoyed his deductions and Sherlock had thought that their new acquaintances had too. Jonas especially had seemed impressed. But Sherlock must have been slightly off because there had been something he had definitely not deduced. Forgiveable, seeing as the man had been in the bar with his girlfriend. And he had seemed very fond of her. But there he had been, in the men’s toilets, smiling, moving towards Sherlock. _Coming onto him._ And they had been alone. He had touched Sherlock, had groped him. He had reached for Sherlock's belt, edging him towards a cubicle, telling him it would be good, to just go with it... Sherlock remembered the feeling of utter panic and terror that had swelled up from deep within him, recalled how he had backed away, and how the confused young man had followed him, asking him what was wrong. Sherlock had called for John. The man had grabbed for him, pleading with him to stay calm and to keep his voice down. And then Sherlock had hit out, punching the man in the face, hard. And then again. The man had fallen. There had been blood, blood on the walls, in the sinks, on Sherlock's fists.

Finally, Sherlock had stopped. He'd stared down at the man lying dazed at his feet, groaning pitifully. What had he done? It had been a misunderstanding. That was all. The man had assumed that Sherlock had been propositioning him. He had meant no harm. And Sherlock had hurt him.

Sherlock had hated himself, hated his actions.

_'A freak... worthless...'_

He had heard those words again, as if Anderson was beside him, hissing them into his ear.

' _You want to know what you are good for?_ '  
He hadn't been able to take it. The guilt.

So, he had run. He had left that poor man lying on the floor. But he had to get away, he had to get out. The room was so small, he was trapped, he couldn't breath. He had run as fast as he could, out of the men's room, out of the bar.

It had been John calling desperately for him that had made him pause.

Then they had talked. John had apologized, said it was too soon. He had calmed Sherlock down, held him, told him it was all going to be okay.

Though Sherlock was certain that neither of them truly believed that.

Together, they had returned to that bar. John had tended to the injured Jonas. He was going to be fine. Not as badly hurt as Sherlock had first thought. Just a bloody nose and a cut lip. To Sherlock, it had all looked so much worse. He had imagined it to be worse. Jonas had actually apologized to him for jumping to the wrong conclusion. He had also promised that he wouldn't press charges.

And then he had shaken Sherlock's hand.

_'Maybe there were some good people out there, if he looked hard enough.…'_

Or, maybe the young man was more concerned about the very uncomfortable conversation he would have to have now with his poor perplexed girlfriend...

Soon after, John and Sherlock had found themselves in a taxi, at last on their way home.

John had apologized all the way. It had quickly become annoying. As soon as they had arrived back, Sherlock had made his excuses and had gone straight to bed.

The next thing he'd known, he had woken up.

In bed. With his best friend. Oh, how people would talk.

 _'Let them.'_ Sherlock mused. _'They like to talk.'_

Sherlock, smiling at a distant memory, glanced again at John. The man was so close to him, close enough to lean forward and kiss if he wanted to.

What is it with the kissing? 

It hadn't even been _that_ good...!

He laid there, not moving. Urges were taking hold of him. Very unexpected urges.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Sherlock allowed his hand to slide down and over the slight bulge in his boxer shorts. As if testing to see if it would still respond, he slowly guided his hand inside his boxers and took hold of his slightly aroused organ. Feeling himself harden, he had a sudden urge to masturbate.

Not now. 

_Not here, while lying in bed with his best friend..._

Feeling as guilty as a teenager, he withdrew his hand and sighed deeply. He had never felt another person touching him there out of love. He wondered what it felt like.

He closed his eyes, hoping to drift away to sleep once more.

Unbeknown to Sherlock, John had actually been awake for the previous minute or so, and he knew only too well what had just almost happened. He understood what Sherlock really wanted, what he longed so much for. Sherlock needed to feel some kind of physical love. A kiss was no longer enough.

John hesitated. What was he thinking? What if he scared Sherlock? What if his friend mistook his intentions?

Another voice whispered to John. And the voice made sense.

_'He doesn't trust anyone but you. If you won't satisfy him, if you won't show him kindness, then who will?'_

John took a deep breath and then slowly reached down. He was only a hair’s length away from Sherlock, it was only a matter of slipping his hand between them...

John paused again.

 _'What the hell was he doing?_ '

Sherlock could feel John's hand getting so close to his manhood, and when that hand stopped moving, he felt a crushing disappointment. He wanted to cry out in frustration. It was then he knew, with absolute clarity, that he wanted John to touch him. He was not scared, or repulsed. In fact, he was calmed by it. He _wanted_ to feel something other than fear and shame. So, he took hold of John's hand, guided it, and placed it against his now throbbing cock. He wondered how John would react. He didn't have to wait long.

John gently began to stroke and Sherlock moaned with pleasure. At once, it felt good. Very good.

Hearing Sherlock's moans, which to John were proof that he was enjoying what John was doing, he became more daring. His hand moved to take a firmer hold on Sherlock's boxers and he gave them a tug, sliding them down Sherlock's legs. He paused for a second, waiting to see if Sherlock protested. When there was no protest forthcoming, John once again began stroking Sherlock's cock. He frowned; he had absolutely no experience in giving another man a hand job. However, hearing Sherlock's groans intensifying, John knew he was doing something right. Within seconds, Sherlock was thrusting furiously into John's hand.

_'I want this to be good for him. I want him to know how this should really feel, how loving this can be. No pain or fear. Not this time.'_

Sherlock knew he wouldn't last for much longer. He was panting, his thrusts erratic and frantic. Before he knew what was happening, he was coming into John's hand. His body trembled hard as his orgasm washed over him, and then finally, it was over.

John leaned down, and gave Sherlock a gentle kiss on the lips. He then moved back slightly and stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard.

Both men just lay there. Neither of them knew what to say.

Sherlock recovered first. Almost mechanically, he reached out, his hand moving towards John's groin. John grabbed his hand, stopping him.

“ _Don't_ ,” he told him.

Sherlock looked confused. “You don't want pleasure too?” He looked down. John didn’t think he could manage it.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I know I haven't... I know it’s… but I can...” He stared directly in John's eyes. “I learn quickly.”

John's heart leaped. ' _Oh Sherlock_.'

“This was about you,” he told him. “It was about what _you_ needed. It wasn't about me.”

Sherlock frowned. “It was my fault. I shouldn't have forced you to-”.

John sat up. “ _Forced me_?” He bit back, loudly.

Sherlock recoiled away from him.

John swore silently, then he reached out and pulled Sherlock closer to him. He wondered if Sherlock would resist. He didn't. If anything, he returned the embrace.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock,” John told him. “But I don't want to hear any more about how you forced me to do anything, or how you _let_ Anderson rape you. I know you think that. Neither are true. I wanted to do it. I wanted you to know what sex, and making love, is really all about. How good it could feel for you. What Anderson did to you, that was as far away from love as it’s possible to be. I wanted you to understand that sex, when it’s true, and real, isn't really like that.”

Sherlock blinked. “But John, you-”.

John sighed. “I don't know what else to say, Sherlock. I'm confused right now too, believe me. We'll have to talk about this in the morning.” He hesitated. “If you want too, obviously.”

Sherlock felt safe and warm in John's arms. He knew he should feel awkward and pathetic, but he didn't. And he didn't really understand why.

Sherlock closed his eyes, facing away from John now.

John continued to stare at his best friend, trying to sort out the mess in his head.

' _What is it about Sherlock? What exactly about him was so fascinating? Why the hell did he want to touch him like that? John knew he wasn't gay, but at the same time, he wanted to be there for him... What is happening?_ '

With a sigh, John turned over, facing away from Sherlock. He closed his eyes, but he knew it was no good, tiredness had left him. There was too much on his mind now. It would be morning soon. Until then, he'd lay there and pretend he was asleep. Just in case Sherlock wanted to discuss anything now. Morning would be better.

What John was completely unaware of was that Sherlock, lying with his back to his friend, was staring, wide awake, at the wall in front of him. And also keeping very quiet.

They stayed like that until John's alarm went off. It was seven a.m. Time to rise.

They didn't speak.

Everything would be clearer in the morning? Right?

_Wrong._

John had to leave for work. He flipped around, ate a slice of toast, drank a quick mug of coffee, and at all times, avoided Sherlock's questioning gaze.

He was going to be late. There was no time now.

He called out a quick goodbye.

Tonight. He'd talk to him tonight. Over dinner.

_Maybe._

He left, leaving Sherlock to stare, expressionless after him.

Sherlock was in a quandary.

He considered going after John, to make him discuss this, when a mobile phone beeped.

Sherlock stopped. He turned around, looking towards the table. He moved forward, picked up his phone, and then smiled with satisfaction.

“ _Just you and me this time. What say you? Meet me. 23A Ash Line Court. I don't have to tell you to come alone, do I? No police, no pets. Just you. One hour. Kisses, M. xx”_

Sherlock was already moving to pick up his coat.

_'And the gun. He'd better take the gun.'_

Everything else was forgotten. Unimportant.

' _At last.'_

Moriarty was back. 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

John was staring at the computer monitor before him. He knew he was supposed to be working. It was getting late; almost seven pm now. Hadn't he promised himself that same morning that today would be the day he would have _the_ chat with Sherlock? Sort the whole sorry situation once and for all? Hadn't he made that decision, and hadn’t he been determined to stand by it? Hadn't he? Then, what was the hell was he still doing at the surgery? 

Was he really that much of a coward?

John sighed. It had been three weeks since _that_ night. The night when everything had changed. It had been three long weeks since he had last attempted to pluck up the courage to sort it all out with Sherlock. And now, here he was, sitting alone at work, hiding away. Avoiding Sherlock. Not wanting to face the embarrassment of it all. He felt so guilty. Sherlock needed him. He needed him more than he ever had done.

But John couldn't face what had happened. No. That wasn't entirely true. John could face the fact that he had given his best friend a hand job. He could think about it, and he did, often, and he knew why he had done it, and his intentions had been good. It was Sherlock, and his hopeful, expectant face. That was what he couldn't bring himself to face. Sherlock expected him to know all the answers concerning this. It had been John's fault it had happened after all. Sherlock had no experience in these matters. He had waited morning after morning, night after night, for John to explain to him what the hell was going on with their relationship. Sherlock had asked no questions out loud, but the accusations, and the required explanations - they were all there, in Sherlock's eyes. And John knew curiosity would overcome his friend eventually, and then, Sherlock would not be able to hold back. He'd want to know what that night happened, why John had touched him, and made him orgasm. And John wished he could find the right words, he wished he had an answer for Sherlock.

But the truth was, he had no idea himself. All he knew was that he had wanted to help Sherlock; had wanted him to feel something other than humiliation and shame. But, in the end, John had made matters worse. Thanks to his silence after the act, Sherlock had then assumed he had done something wrong, and then had retreated even further into himself. He had hardly spoken a word to John for the past week. And John missed him. Almost more than he could bear.

It was nothing new for John not to see very much of Sherlock for days on end. The other man had disappeared for weeks before now, and it was common for John not to receive an email, or even as much as a text, just to inform him that Sherlock was safe and well. So, this was normal behaviour for Sherlock. What made John so nervous this time though, was because _he_ was probably the likely cause of Sherlock's newest disappearance. John was worried - considering Sherlock's vulnerable state after all he had been through - that his foolish attempt at kindness had caused his friend yet more harm. And Sherlock had no idea how to cope with any of it. Not Anderson, nor the attack, and now John and his blundering. Sherlock had actually tried to talk to John a few times since the incident, but John had consistently blocked him, citing his reasons as to not having the time, or thinking it would be better to leave it until that night. And Sherlock, the hurt clear in his eyes, had frowned, and turned away, not saying any more. John had wanted to talk to Sherlock, to reassure him that the other man had done nothing wrong, that the problem lay with John and his own confused feelings. John had been embarrassed, and flustered, and had no clue how to explain his actions. And so, not knowing what to do or say for the best, he’d clammed up. He had let Sherlock down. He had made matters ten times worse.

And now, Sherlock was gone.

John rubbed his eyes, trying to concentrate on what he was typing. It was useless. He was making ridiculous little mistakes; he would be lucky if he didn't mix up blood test results, let alone prescribe the wrong drugs to some poor bugger. He knew it was pointless him still being there. He needed to be at home, with Sherlock, sorting this whole sorry mess out once and for all. 

In that very instance, John made up his mind. Time to go. If he got lucky, and arrived home to find Sherlock waiting there, then he would talk to him. He would sort this out, and put it right.

_Please, just let Sherlock be there._

John looked up, ready to turn off his monitor, and promptly almost fell off of his chair. 

Mycroft Holmes was standing before him, watching. John had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts; he’d not realised he was no longer alone. He took a moment, as he was so startled by the other man's sudden appearance. And then, with a sigh, he got to his feet heavily.

Sherlock's older brother was not someone he wanted to see at that moment. He knew this wouldn't be good.

Mycroft was smiling slightly. John didn't return the smile.

“How are you, John?” Mycroft offered. “Working late tonight?”

“I'm fine, thanks.” John replied, curtly. “And you?”

“A little concerned, to be honest.”

“Concerned?” John frowned. “About Sherlock, no doubt?”

Mycroft pursed his lips together. 

“It has come to my attention,” he began, his hard stare making John feel ever more uneasy, “that you and Sherlock may be having a few problems recently.” He hesitated. “That you may not be speaking to each other at the moment.”

“We're fine,” said John, at once.

Mycroft gave him small, regretful smile. “No, John. You're not. You hardly even see him.”

John blinked. What was the point in lying? Sometimes, it felt like his own life didn't belong to him any more.

 _That's because it doesn't. Not now. Not since all this started._

Mycroft stepped closer. “I am worried, John, that you are not currently aiding Sherlock in his recovery.”

John felt his temper rise immediately. “You know how much I care about Sherlock -”.

Mycroft interrupted him. “I do not doubt your affections for my brother, John. Please, don't misunderstand me. But, I feel that perhaps the assistance and care that my brother requires following his attack may be more than what you are able to offer him.”

“He just needs time,” John blurted out. “There is no point involving anyone else, Mycroft.” He lowered his voice. “I'll get there with him. This was never going to be healed in a couple of weeks. He was _raped_ , for God's sake!”

Mycroft flinched. He tightened his hold on his umbrella, and then continued on.

“Sherlock is also doing a rather decent job avoiding my efforts at keeping him under surveillance. Any attempt to follow him is met with failure. This concerns me greatly, John.” His eyes bored into John's. “I _have_ to know what he is doing.”

John shook his head. “You could just leave him alone.”

Mycroft gave him a withering look. “That is not possible, doctor. You and I both know Sherlock is far too _unpredictable_ right now to be given free reign.” He stepped ever closer. “You need to keep a keener eye on him, John. I can't _lose_ Sherlock. The consequences could be dire.”

John gritted his teeth. He understood. Mycroft was clearly worried about his brother, and was that perhaps a note of panic in his voice? But the worry and panic were not about the well-being of his brother; John knew that for certain.

“It's not Sherlock's welfare you care about, is it, Mycroft? It's how dangerous he could be, if you let your grip on him slip. If he became a _problem,_ that could come off quite badly for you, couldn't it?”

Mycroft was glaring at John now, his eyes narrowing. John couldn't help it; he had to look away first. There was something so sinister, so dark, about Mycroft. John found himself wondering, once again, what had happened to Anderson? Just what exactly did Mycroft do to him?

The older Holmes brother leaned forward. He was right in John's space now. John eyed him nervously.

“To keep my brother out of sight, John, and safely silent, I will do absolutely whatever is necessary. For his own good, of course.” His eyes blazed. “ _Whatever is necessary._ ”

John looked up sharply. He didn't like the sound of that. At all.

He raised an accusing finger before he was even aware of what he was doing.

“Mycroft, I swear, if you hurt him...”

Mycroft held up a weary hand to stop him. “He's my brother, John. I don't want to hurt him.” He held up his hands. “All I want to do is help him.”

John was not impressed. “Oh, I see. Like when you helped him before. When you kidnapped him.”

Something unsavory flashed across Mycroft's face. He didn't seem tired now. He balled his fists, and then visibly calmed himself. He reached out and placed a cold hand on John's face. The other man flinched. Mycroft smiled at him.

“Have a care, John. Please don't push me.” Rage radiated from those eyes. “Not now.” A pause. “Do you understand?”

John swallowed down his anger, and looked up into those cold, unsettling eyes. Mycroft's tone was making him very nervous. He didn't dare respond. 

Finally, Mycroft moved away from the startled doctor, and turned his back. He walked towards the door, his umbrella swinging at his side. Just as he reached the exit, he called back to John, over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around. “You promised me you could help him, John. I took you at your word. Don't let me down.” He paused. “I want my brother back. Sort it, or I will sort it myself.” At last, he looked at John. “And I really don't think you want that.”

John frowned. Why didn't he respond? God, there was so much he wanted to say.

But instead, he nodded.

Mycroft gave him a small smile. He seemed satisfied. For now.

“Good evening then, Dr. Watson.” He said, pleasantly. “Don't forget to turn your computer off, will you? Such a terrible waste of energy.”

And with that, he left John alone, leaving the other man to glare angrily after him.

XXX

John arrived home some short time after, already feeling nervous. Now, he couldn't decide if he'd prefer to have Sherlock there or not. He walked up the stairs slowly, listening out for a tell-tale sign that his flat mate was there, such as the television being on, or the sound of Sherlock's violin.

There was nothing.

He pushed open their door cautiously, and saw Sherlock standing in the centre of the room, putting on his coat. Sherlock nodded a greeting as John entered.

As John stared at Sherlock, it dawned on the doctor that his friend always wore his scarf at all times now, whether inside or out. John wondered why. Did he feel cold at all times? Would his friend feel shivers at the thought of what he went through? Or was it a comfort thing?

“You okay?” John asked.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Of course.”

“You've been away for a few days-”

“A case,” Sherlock answered, bluntly.

John nodded. He knew he would not get any answers, and he could also see that Sherlock was in a rush. The few times he'd seen his friend recently, he'd always been rushing to go out, as if he simply didn't want to be close to John for too long. 

John could only pray that he was being paranoid.

“Going somewhere?”

Sherlock gave him one of his “why are you so stupid?” looks that he reserved just for John.

“Obviously.”

“Sorry, right.” John placed his hands on the back of his chair. “And where are you going? It's getting late.”

“Out, John.”

“Well, can I come with you?”

“No.”

John just stood there, staring dumbly. Sherlock put on his gloves, eyeing his friend thoughtfully.

“I'll be back later tonight, John. I'll see you then.”

“Sherlock,” John began, unperturbed. He had something he needed to say. “I want to talk to you, about what happened-”.

“Later. I don't have the time now.” 

John was despairing.

“We need to talk about this, Sherlock. We can't keep ignoring-”.

Sherlock paused at the door. With his hand on the handle, he turned, and glared at John impatiently.

“I have to go, John. There is something I have to do. When I come back, then we'll talk.”

And with that, Sherlock turned and left, closing the door behind him.

John could only stare uselessly after him. What could he do? He couldn’t force Sherlock to stay in, he couldn’t keep him prisoner. And besides, there had been many times when Sherlock had tried to discuss that night with John, and John had knocked him back. Why should Sherlock drop everything now, just because John was ready to face it?

John couldn't blame him.

But, there was more at stake here than their own feelings. Mycroft was not making an idle threat. He would deal with Sherlock himself, in his own manner, unless John did as he had promised.

But what could John do? And there was of course something that Mycroft didn't know. And that was the reason why Sherlock and John were falling apart at the exact time they needed to be closer than ever. And it was all John's fault. Because he couldn't keep his hand to himself, and then, he had confused and embarrassed Sherlock, forcing him away.

And John had no idea how to get him back.

 

XXX

Sherlock had been standing there for twenty minutes. He glanced at his watch. Twenty past. The bastard was playing with him. Always playing his sick game.

He looked around. An abandoned warehouse. Very elegant.

His foe had chosen this place. He always chose. He would text Sherlock, and Sherlock would go there. And the game would commence. The day before, Sherlock had been the victor. Moriarty's puzzle had not been too strenuous. Sherlock had figured out rather quickly which bank the robbers had planned on striking. And Lestrade had sent a team. All of them had been caught. Another excellent day for Scotland Yard.

And now, Sherlock was meeting his opponent, so they could plan the next round. And the game would go on. And Sherlock would come alive once more.

But not this time. This time, Sherlock had texted Moriarty, and told him they needed to talk. This time, it was Sherlock's game.

And there would be no next round.

Sherlock closed his eyes. John. John was what he needed. And John was finally willing to talk to him. At last. They needed to discuss that night, and their feelings. There was so much that needed to be dealt with if they were to move on.

And Sherlock knew that this game was the first sacrifice he would have to make.

_It was not going to be easy._

He heard his footsteps before he heard him speak. Sherlock tensed, as always.

“Hello Sherlock. So sorry I'm late. I had something I had to deal with. No need to ask me what. I'm sure your Inspector friend will be in touch about it very soon.”

Sherlock frowned. Even the sound of that hated voice irritated the detective. Very slowly, he turned around.

Moriarty was smiling happily at him.

Sherlock glared back.

The two adversaries faced each other. There was a wide space between them, and Sherlock was happy to keep it that way. He wanted Moriarty to keep away. It made this easier.

_No temptations._

Moriarty chuckled. “So, you wanted to meet me, my dear?”

Sherlock stayed expressionless. “I came here to tell you one thing.”

“Oh?” Moriarty was still smiling. Sherlock wanted to wipe that smiled off of his damned face.

_And he would._

“This is over. From right now. It stops.”

Moriarty's smile didn't falter.

“This ends when I want it too, Sherlock. This is my game.”

“Our game.”

“No,” Jim's eyes narrowed then. “My game. My rules. It ends when I say.”

“I'm not going to play any more.”

Moriarty tilted his head. “Do you really think you have a choice?”

“Yes,” he stepped closer. “Don't contact me again.”

Moriarty shook his head in amusement. “You'd miss me, Sherlock. Imagine the boredom.”

Sherlock swallowed. If he was honest, he knew Moriarty had a point. But his mind was made up. Deciding not to give the other man another moment of his time, he turned his back on him and began to walk to the exit.

Moriarty didn't like that.

“Sherlock!” He hissed. “Don't do this.”

“Goodbye, Jim.”

“This ends when I'm satisfied, and not before.” 

Sherlock stopped walking at those words. He glanced back at his foe, suddenly unsure.

Moriarty's eyes were flashing. “Now, what could you do to satisfy me, Sherlock?” He swayed gently. His gaze was mocking. “Any ideas?”

Sherlock clenched his fists. _Walk away. Just leave._

“I won't tell you again,” he snapped, keeping his voice low. “It ends tonight. All of it.”

Moriarty searched his face, and then let out a loud sigh. “You disappoint me, Sherlock.” He grimaced. “You know how much I hate it when you disappoint me.”

The other man frowned. The Irish accent was slipping in once more. Oh, how that irritated Sherlock. Nothing about this man was real, nothing genuine. Not even how he spoke. Sherlock wanted to leave. No. He was desperate.

“You'll get over it,” he barked, and turned on his heel again.

Moriarty watched his back. He was annoyed now. After a beat, he spoke again. His voice was quiet, and Sherlock knew that this meant trouble. “I'm assuming you're still sneaking around?” Jim asked him. His tone was pleasant. Sherlock wasn't fooled. “Are you still hiding the truth from poor John?”

“Of course.” And then, losing his cool momentarily, he threw back over his shoulder; “You think I want him to know about this?” 

“Are you telling me you're ashamed, Sherlock? Of me?” Moriarty let out a fake sob, and placed a hand over his chest. “You've wounded me!”

“I do hope so.”

“Oh, I'm not angry,” Jim continued, quickly. On the contrary, he seemed amused. “I quite like being your dirty little secret.”

Sherlock didn't respond. He merely stared at Moriarty, his face expressionless.

Jim plunged his hands deep into his pockets. “It would be a terrible shame though, wouldn't it?” He mused, in his sing-song voice, “If John was to find out about our little rendezvous?” He grinned. “How do you think he'd take it? Not well, I'd guess.” Jim's smile widened as he watched Sherlock walk calmly back towards him, not stopping until he was a hairs length away. Sherlock glared daggers at the smaller man. Moriarty clasped his hands together. “In fact,” he announced, “I'd expect our good Dr. Watson to do something,” he waited a beat, and then he added, cruelly, “very stupid.”

Sherlock didn't try to contain his anger. He grabbed Jim by his throat, and when the other man didn't resist, he began to squeeze.

“If you go anywhere near John again, I _will_ kill you.”

Jim chuckled. He didn't fight back. “And what would that prove?” He asked, wheezing painfully, but still continuing to talk, apparently unconcerned that Sherlock was throttling him. “John would still discover the truth eventually.” 

Sherlock shook his head, and tightened his hold, wanting to shut the wretched man up. Permanently, if he had too. But Jim did not seem to want to take the hint. No matter how harshly Sherlock treated him, the man would just not stop talking. “And what do you think our brave, sweet, innocent little Johnny will do when he finds out just what his beloved hero has been getting _up_ to for the past three weeks?” Sherlock squeezed harder, and Moriarty let out a squawking sound. Sherlock saw, with much satisfaction, that Jim was turning redder by the second.

Jim was coughing, the smile finally wiped from his face. He couldn't breathe. And he wasn't looking so cocksure now.

Sherlock waiting a few more moments before reluctantly releasing his enemy.

Jim doubled over, gasping for breath. He eyed Sherlock distastefully.

“You're so weak.” He whispered, hoarsely. “You'll never be able to kill me.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

Jim snorted. “Sherlock,” he purred. “You can't lie to me. You couldn't even kill Anderson. You let your brother deal with your rapist on your behalf, because you were too scared to face him.” He leaned closer, his voice now dripped with false sympathy. “Poor baby.”

“Shut up.”

“What was it like? You never tell me. To feel a policeman's cock up your virgin arse? Sherlock Holmes turned into a pitiful victim by a simple, dull, sad little man. How did that feel?” 

“I said, shut up,” Sherlock snarled. 

Inwardly, he was trembling. The memories, always just on the edge of his mind, flooded back.

The agony, the humiliation. Anderson. Anderson grabbing him, pinning him, thrusting into him.

_“So fucking tight!”_

Sherlock stared down at the ground. He trembled. He couldn't help himself. 

He could hear his own screams ringing in his ears.

_“Tell me what it feels like to have me fucking you right now, freak! Why don't you tell me what you can fucking deduce from that?”_

Sherlock glanced up to find that Moriarty was smirking at him, and clearly turned on by Sherlock's obvious pain. 

“Still hurts, doesn't it Sherlock?”

_Ignore him._

“Or, is the truth of it that you actually _enjoyed_ it, I wonder?

Sherlock reacted at once, punching Jim in the gut hard, winding him. 

Sherlock was incensed. “You don't know anything about me!” He hit Jim twice more.

Once the other man had finally stopped retching, Sherlock grabbed him again by the throat _again_ , forcing him back against the wall behind them.

Moriarty laughed. He made Sherlock's blood boil.

“What the _hell_ do you want from me, Moriarty?” The Detective spat.

The smile Jim gave him then was one of pure evil. Moriarty suddenly struggled against Sherlock's hold, taking the other man by surprise. The smaller man over powered Sherlock momentarily, grabbing the detective, and pulling him closer towards him.

“Just you, Sherlock. You are all I want.”

And then, he kissed Sherlock brutally, biting the other man's lip, drawing blood. Sherlock tried to fight against Jim, but his adversary clung on, not allowing Sherlock to break off the kiss. Sherlock, sickened, finally wrestled himself away from Jim, wiping at his mouth, at the back of his hand, and glaring at the smirking Moriarty with disgust.

“What's wrong? Is John a better kisser or something?” Jim enquired, breathlessly. “I'd love to find out.”

Sherlock couldn't take it. Not these comments directed at John. He struck the smug bastard hard across the face, sending him reeling backwards. Moriarty stumbled, and only just managed to remain on his feet. He eyed Sherlock, fingering his now cut lip.

“Well, aren't you violent today?” Jim chuckled. “I like it.” 

Sherlock was taken aback. This was not how he had envisioned this encounter would go. 

_Get away from him. Leave. He'd had it all planned. Say what you needed to, and then get out. And don't look back._

_What exactly had happened?_

_Why the fuck was he still there?_

Within seconds, taking full advantage of Sherlock's sudden hesitation, Jim had again gained the upper hand, and Sherlock found himself pinned against the wall this time, instead of his foe. He stared, wide-eyed, at Jim. 

“And what do _you_ want, Sherlock Holmes?”

Jim grabbed Sherlock's hair, forced the other man's head back. “How would John react, Sherlock? If he knew you had been enjoying my sexual favours for two weeks now? What would he do?” Sherlock moaned, trying desperately to pull free, but Jim held him too tightly. He couldn't move. Jim nibbled and bit at Sherlock's ear, causing the other man to cringe. “I'd love to find out.”

Sherlock whimpered. It was music to Moriarty's ears. He could feel how tense Sherlock was, and knew that the other man couldn't stand being grabbed by his hair. A reminder left over from his rape, perhaps? Whatever the reason, Jim would not stop as long as Sherlock gave him a reaction. _Any_ reaction from the cold man was exciting, and a victory, for Moriarty. He tore off the scarf covering Sherlock's neck, and then kissed and sucked along Sherlock's throat, adding to the marks Sherlock had already attempted to hide. The fool. He heard the detective gasping, and looked at him to find that Sherlock had screwed his eyes shut, desperately fighting against his body's natural urges that were threatening to take him over.

Jim could see the battle raging within the taller man. It amused him to watch Sherlock struggle with himself so hopelessly.

“Don't you want me?” Jim breathed.

Sherlock shuddered. _No. I don't want this._

“Tell me what you want, Sherlock.”

_I want you to stop. Just stop. I don't want you. I want... I want..._

Jim was growing impatient. He grabbed Sherlock's manhood, causing the other man to growl with his desire. “Tell me what you want!”

_John. I want John._

Sherlock stared at Jim.

“I want...I want...”

“Yes?”

_“I want you on your fucking knees.”_

Jim laughed at loud. And then, he beamed. “That's more like it,” he whispered. He obediently began to slowly lower himself to the floor, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock.

Sherlock, watching him, was already turned on by the sight of Jim's submission. He no longer had the stomach or the will for the fight. And Sherlock knew what was happening, of course he knew. John, by pushing Sherlock away, had played his friend right into Moriarty's hands. And Moriarty had taken full advantage. Sherlock had known from the first moment Moriarty had kissed him that this was all wrong, and he had wanted to put a stop to it. Dammit, he'd tried. He had planned to end it, once and for all, that very same night, hadn't he? But he couldn't do it. At least, with Moriarty, he felt something. Yes, it was twisted, and sick, and wrong. But it was better than the humiliation and the shame he normally lived with, every day of his life, since Anderson had pinned him down and fucked him, one cold, black night.

Moriarty wanted him. He wanted to pleasure him. And Sherlock just wanted to _feel._ It seemed a good trade.

_John doesn't want me. He hardly ever looks at me these days. Why not?_

He viciously grabbed Jim's hair, and uncaring whether he hurt the other man, moved his head nearer to his aching groin. 

_Moriarty knows what I want. He always knows. And he's very good at providing it._

_This way, I'm not thinking. I don't have to close my eyes and see Anderson. He's not inside me, touching me, thrusting into me. Just for a tiny few moments, I'm free._

_At least, this time, I'm in control._

Jim watched silently, as Sherlock let out a deep breath.

He smirked, as Sherlock closed his eyes, preparing himself for what was about to happen.

_You're mine, Sherlock._

Jim knew he'd won. He grinned, triumphantly, as he reached for Sherlock's belt.

If only Sherlock knew the truth. Moriarty could hardly wait. The fun hadn't even begun.

_And the trap snapped shut._

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, hope you are enjoying this. Thanks for the kudos :) If you can leave me a comment, that would be great :) I should be updating one chapter every day from now on...

Sherlock leaned against the front door to 221B Baker Street, his eyes tightly closed, and his head resting against the wood. He had been like that for a few moments, trying to clear his head. 

It was morning now. He had awoken, filthy and naked, in that grimy warehouse about thirty minutes previously, as Moriarty had typically left him alone hours beforehand. Sherlock ached all over, and as always after an encounter with his foe, he felt used and dirty. He squirmed inwardly as flashes of memories from the night before came to him. Shame swept over him as he recalled squirming and writhing, unable to move or to think, and eventually pleading with his greatest enemy for release, or just to keep going, as Jim had pleasured him to the point of delirium, smirking up at him at all times. And Sherlock had come, crying out his outrage; spilling his seed down the other man's throat. Dizzying waves of pleasure had seized him and he had found himself convulsing helplessly in Moriarty's grasp. Jim had swallowed every last drop, his eyes shining brightly as he had looked triumphantly up at Sherlock. Moriarty had become more forceful then, grabbing Sherlock by his arm, and pushing the other man forward, indicating he had wanted him on his knees. He had expected his turn this time, and Sherlock had, as usual, backed away from the other man, refusing to give in to what Moriarty wanted of him. And, as always, Jim had agreed to Sherlock's desire to wait, informing Sherlock that he would expect more from him “next time”. He had then pinned Sherlock against the wall, laughing deliriously as he had subjected the other man to numerous depraved humiliations. Nasty, shameful situations that Sherlock never wanted to have to think about ever again.

And, it had hurt. A lot. Very painful, for sure, but also so pleasurable. 

Not like the first time. Not like the way it had been with Anderson. So, at least he could say his sexual experiences had improved.

He smiled grimly.

Was this all there was? He had known otherwise, after all, it hadn't hurt when John had touched him. Mainly because John had just wanted to pleasure him, he hadn't expected anything from Sherlock in return.

_'When does sex stop hurting?'_ Sherlock wondered. _'I do feel something with Jim; but I can't explain why I keep going back for more, as I never enjoy it. Aren't I meant to? Isn't that what John had promised?'_

Maybe it wasn't supposed to be like that, not for him. Sherlock truly wondered if he actually deserve to be used. Was this all he was? A worthless whore? Anderson had told him so and, as usual, Sherlock found himself thinking that perhaps he was right.

What will John think of him when he finds out?

Sherlock knew he had no one to blame but himself. This had been all his own fault. He kept going back for what Jim gave him. In fact, he craved it. He had, last night, at least tried to put a stop to it. He must have been mad. He should have known that Moriarty was never going to let him off the hook that easily. 

Sherlock sighed, finally pulling open the front door. He closed it carefully behind him, trying his hardest to keep the noise down to a minimum. He glanced at his watch. Quarter past seven. He didn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson up, and he certainly didn't want to disturb John, if he was still at home and hadn't gone to Sarah's for comfort. Sherlock couldn't blame him if he had. 

He moved onto the first step and placed his hand on the banister. He didn't make it to the next step before he heard the creak of a door opening, and then suddenly a very excited, and surprisingly wide awake, Mrs. Hudson was upon him, clutching a broom in her right hand, which she was waving around, as if in a fit. 

And she looked very relieved to see him.

“Sherlock! What time do you call this, young man?”

He hesitated, and then decided to break into a big smile. It worked like a charm, as he watched her visibly melt.

_'Whatever you can do, Mycroft...'_.

His landlady was looking well, nearly completely recovered from her own recent ordeal at the hands of a very sick man. He frowned when he thought back to how close they had come to losing her. All thanks to Moriarty grooming the young boy to be one of his playthings, a murderer he could treat as a toy. And the press had not aided the situation, giving the young boy notoriety, giving him a persona. The Butcher.

Moriarty had not been in the least bit upset that Sherlock had killed his protégée. No, in fact, he'd been impressed. And he had wanted to know every last detail.

_"How did it feel, killing Vern? Such a sweet, confused little boy when I found him. He so wanted some attention, just someone to tell him he was loved. Bless. I showed him all that he could be. He learned so quickly."_

Sherlock had been sickened, and had angrily informed Moriarty that had merely been a sick boy that he had turned into a killer.

Moriarty had laughed at that. _"I know. And a pretty fine one, wouldn't you say? He was a lot of fun!"_

Sherlock wanted to shut him out. If only he could stop thinking. Just for a second.

Mrs. Hudson was eyeing Sherlock closely.

“Well, well, Sherlock! You dirty stop out!” She shook her head, chuckling.

He tried to smile, but he was sure it looked more like a grimace. His insides were in knots.

“Sorry Mrs. Hudson, but-”.

She waved a hand. “Always so busy, busy!” She grinned and began to sweep around his feet. He stared down, watching her progress. Her next words though, froze his insides.

“I bet I can guess what you've been up to!”

He stopped dead, glancing back at her nervously. “Excuse me?”

“Why, Sherlock, working of course! Always working on one of your cases!” She smiled broadly at him. “What else would you be doing?”

He nodded, relieved.

“What else?” He agreed. 

He climbed the stairs, but could still hear her pleasant words, as she hadn't actually bothered to check whether he was still there. 

“I think poor John was worried though. I saw that your living room light was still on at one in the morning. He must have been exhausted, poor thing, and then waiting up for you like that anyway. You need to keep hold of that one, Sherlock. There are so few friends left in the world, he's quite a find...”

Her words trailed off and then he could hear her humming. He gripped the banister tightly. He felt sick by the time he had reached the door. 

He felt terrible. John had sat up, waiting for him? All that time?

He swallowed hard

Sherlock opened the door cautiously to find John propped up in his favourite chair, sleeping peacefully. Sherlock noted at once that the other man was still fully dressed. Sherlock closed the door behind him quietly, suddenly feeling mixed emotions. He was grateful to John for his concern, but also irritated that the man could allow tiredness to overcome him so much that he fell asleep on the job. Had he learned nothing from Sherlock? Sherlock couldn't help but feel a smidgen of disappointment. And, of course, there was guilt too. Guilt that Sherlock himself had been the cause of that tiredness. 

Sherlock stared down at his friend for a few moments, considering his next move. He wondered if he should creep past the sleeping John, allowing the man to believe, for his own good of course, that Sherlock had actually arrived back hours ago, and had simply not wanted to wake his friend?

Sherlock shook his head grimly. No. John would never believe that. He's no imbecile.

But he had waited up for him all that time. He _cared._ Sherlock owed it to him to at least be honest.

Well, honest to a certain point, obviously.

Sherlock had made up his mind; the best course of action was to face the music. He crossed the room, bent over John, and gently shook the man's shoulder.

“John?”

John, not sleeping soundly, awoke with a start.

He blinked, his eyes fixed on Sherlock, as he tried to focus. 

“What time is it?” He asked, sleepily.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Just after eight. Good morning.”

John gave a double take. “Eight?” He looked towards the clock on the mantelpiece, only to discover that Sherlock was indeed speaking the truth. “Why didn't you wake me? I was supposed to be meeting...” He paused, taking in Sherlock's clothes. “Wait a minute. Are you going somewhere?”

Sherlock frowned. “No.”

John pointed at him, confused. “But you've got your coat and scarf on so why...” He broke off again, this time figuring it out. “Have you only just got home?” He asked, quietly. 

Sherlock's smile didn't falter. But his eyes betrayed his panic. “I was working all night, on a case.” He waved his hand absent-mindedly. “ For, you know, Lestrade.”

Sherlock silently thanked Mrs Hudson for the excuse. However, as his smile grew wide, so did John's suspicions.

“I was going to make myself a coffee,” Sherlock stated. “Want one?”

John nodded, though his eyes narrowed accusingly as he watched Sherlock making his way to the kitchen.

“I was waiting for you,” John called to him. “You promised me you would be back later.”

Sherlock stuck his head back round the door.

“And here I am.”

Now, John looked annoyed.

Sherlock decided that this was for the best.

Best to keep it light. Keep it normal. Don't let him suspect any more than he already does. Even John could manage to deduce the truth from this evidence.

“Sherlock, it's the next morning.” John replied slowly.

Sherlock shrugged. “You don't call that later?”

“I call it rude, actually.”

Sherlock vanished back inside the kitchen. John heard the sound of the kettle boiling.

John tried again. “You could have let me know you weren't coming back until the next day. Sending me a text would have been nice. I'd have gone to bed-”.

“I didn't ask you to wait up for me.” Sherlock retorted loudly.

“I was worried.”

Sherlock stood beside the kettle, two mugs placed in front of him. He leaned against the worktop and closed his eyes. What could he say to that? He glanced back towards the door and was startled to find that John was now in the doorway, watching him closely. Sherlock stared back for a second and then reverted his eyes to the boiling kettle.

“What have you been doing?” John enquired finally.

“I told you,” Sherlock replied, slowly. “I was helping out Lestrade.”

“And you couldn’t have shared that with me? You told me I couldn't go with you. Pretty damn sharply too. What was so special about this case that I had to be kept in the dark?”

Sherlock was uncomfortable. “I couldn't bring you with me,” he whispered. “It's as simple as that, John.”

“So, it's a secret. A big exciting secret between you and Lestrade that I couldn't be privy to. I'm not important enough, not clever enough, is that it?”

Sherlock was unimpressed. “This is childish, John,” he informed him curtly.

John glowered back. “Oh, I'm sorry. Being left out has that effect on me sometimes.”

They both stood there, both glaring at the other. Sherlock looked away first, taking hold of the kettle, pouring the water firstly into John's mug and then into his own. He added milk, walked to John, and handed him his mug. John eyed Sherlock for a few seconds more and then turned away, disgruntled. Sherlock walked towards their sofa and sat down, sipping his drink carefully.

After a beat, John crossed the room and sat down beside Sherlock. Neither spoke for a few moments.

Finally, John broke the silence.

“I'm sorry,” he stated, quietly. “I've been an arse.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “What?”

“I took advantage of you that night.”

Sherlock blinked. “When?”

John gave him an incredulous look. “You know, when I...” He looked down at his hand.

Sherlock understood. “Ah,” was all he could say.

John went red. “It was wrong what I did.” He swallowed. “I never should have assumed you wanted me to do that to you. I'm sorry.”

Sherlock waited a moment to respond. “It did confuse me,” he replied. “You did what you did, fine, but then you ignored me. You blocked me out, and that hurt. I thought you were angry with me.”

John looked devastated.

“I know, my behaviour was shocking.” John told him. “I feel awful. I let you down and I'll understand if things can never be the way they were between us.”

Sherlock turned and eye balled John. His gaze was intense; John couldn't help but get goosebumps.

“For the record,” Sherlock told him, “you don't need to feel guilty. And you didn't take advantage of me, John. I wanted you to touch me.” He lowered his voice. “You made me feel normal, just for a short while, like I wasn't a freak.”

John blinked. “How do you mean?”

“When you touched me, it felt different,” Sherlock rubbed at his eyes. “I didn't feel dirty, like I did before, with him.”

John frowned.

“You mean with Anderson, I take it?”

_Not all._

Sherlock took another sip from his coffee. “I still think about what he did. He still tortures me.”

“He can't hurt you now,” John whispered, placing his own mug down on the carpet beside his feet. “He's long gone.”

“Anderson may be gone, but that doesn't mean I'm free of him. Knowing my brother, he's probably not having the easiest time, where ever he is, and I wish him well.” Sherlock shrugged. John could tell his friend didn't care. As long as Anderson was nowhere near him, he was happy. “But that doesn't change the fact that he won, does it?

John's heart skipped a beat.

“Why would you even _think_ that, let alone say that?”

“Because he ruined me.” Sherlock looked down. “I'm not the same man I was after what he did to me. He's changed me forever. He stole something special. Something I can't take back.” His lips twitched. “I was never ashamed to be virgin. I liked the fact that I still had my innocence that I didn't feel the need to sleep my way through the population of my university in order to _fit in_. It was all part of what made me...” he broke off, before adding, wearily, “unique.”

John gave him a disapproving look. “You're still unique, Sherlock, believe me.” He leaned closer. “Who says you're not innocent now anyway?"]

Sherlock squirmed inwardly.

“I had sex,” he retorted. “Whether I consented or not, Anderson and I have sexual intercourse.” His hands toyed with the mug of coffee. “Ergo, I'm not a virgin any more.”

“I'm not talking about sex, Sherlock. Everyone has sex. I'm talking about love. Actually making love with someone you care about. That's not so easy to find.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don't even know what making love _means.”_

John didn't stop to think. “Then, why don't you let me show you?”

Sherlock froze. He moved his head, very slowly, to turn and stare dumbly at John. He blinked, hesitating, clearly trying to allow those words to sink in.

John could have smashed his own head against the wall.

_'Idiot!'_

“Are you saying-”, Sherlock began, but John cut across him.

“What do you think I'm saying?” John snapped back.

Sherlock hesitated, his eyes still boring into John. John felt so uncomfortable; he cast his eyes away and gazed awkwardly at the floor. How could he have been so stupid? He didn't want to see Sherlock laugh at him so he continued to look away. Some seconds past and John became impatient, wondering what his friend's reaction was going to be.

Maybe he shouldn't have been so honest.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “You and me?” He finally replied. “In this room, right now?”

John wanted to keep it light. That would enable him to keep some face should Sherlock turn him down. “What would you prefer? Me to ravish you on the stairs?”

“That would give Mrs. Hudson a shock when she comes back after the Saturday shop.”

John stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock actually laughed. John smiled, shaking his head with bewilderment, and looked towards the door for a moment. When he looked at Sherlock again, he saw that the other man was still watching him intently.

And all of John's hairs stood up on end.

No longer able to hold himself back, John, swallowing his nerves, leaned right into Sherlock, and tried to kiss him.

Sherlock recoiled away quickly, as if John had tried to attack him.

“I can't...” Sherlock stood up abruptly, backing away from John, moving towards the bathroom. “I just want... need to freshen up... have a wash,” he was babbling, talking to himself more than John. “I've just got home, been working all night...” He walked hurriedly to the bathroom, not looking at the other man. “Going to have a shower, I won't be long.” He disappeared into the bathroom, leaving John to stare after him, utterly confused.

XXX

Sherlock turned off the shower, rubbing the water out of his eyes. He stepped out, grabbed a towel and rubbed himself down. He stared at himself in the mirror as he did so, his face expressionless. His eyes could almost appear dead. He felt so dirty, again now believing how he could have let a sick bastard like James Moriarty lay a hand on him. He had consented to sexual acts with a monster. And he had enjoyed all of them. He must be as sick as Jim was. Now, John wanted to touch him to, to see him, like this, naked. He would see the mess Sherlock was now looking at. And he would _know._

Sherlock held onto the wall for support, suddenly feeling so weak. It didn't matter how many times he showered, he would never be able to wash away the grime, or more importantly, the shame, as his mind thought back to one of the many recent encounters he had tried his hardest to never think about again.

_"Be submissive for me, Sherlock. Do whatever I say."_

_Moriarty was being rough with him, shoving him against the painfully uneven stone wall, and kissing him hard. Sherlock was frightened, as much as he hated to admit it, frightened that he had lost control. As Moriarty kissed and groped him, Sherlock surrendered, giving into his urges, allowing Moriarty to grab his hair, jerk his neck to one side, and suck on his neck possessively, like a vampire._

_Sherlock was struck repeatedly, but not where the bruises would be easily visible. Jim was always careful. He wanted to keep Sherlock to himself, wanted to keep him under his control. He always beat him, and marked him, where nobody else would not be able to see. Where John wouldn't see. Sherlock's eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but he could hear Moriarty panting, knew the other man was overcome with lust and his own excitement that he had Sherlock Holmes at his mercy. Again. Sherlock was grabbed cruelly and he felt himself being forced to his knees. Nothing new there, but this time, he didn't object._

_Moriarty laughed._

_"You're learning," he told him. Jim was breathing heavily as he gazed down upon the compliant form of his foe. Jim quickly unbuckled his belt with one hand, the other gripping Sherlock's chin in a painful hold._

_"Suck me," Jim growled._

_Sherlock moaned. He stared up at Moriarty, confusion and embarrassment in those eyes._

_"It is polite to return the favour, Sherlock." Moriarty was smirking. "Whatever you take, you can also provide."_

_Sherlock looked down at the ground, still resting on his knees. "I can't," he whispered._

_Jim clearly only became more turned on._

_"You don't know how, do you?"_

_When Sherlock didn't respond, Jim laughed loudly. Sherlock cringed inwardly._

_Jim crouched down beside Sherlock, gently stroking the other man's hair. "Do you have any idea how much I want to fuck you, Sherlock?" The detective recoiled slightly at that. Memories resurfaced, visions of the pain and the horror that Anderson had put him through once more swimming before his eyes. He shook his head in denial, as he tried desperately to clear his head._

_Moriarty chuckled. "Don't worry, I can keep waiting. For now. I think you'll be worth the wait." He stood up straight again. "But, for today, I think you can find other ways to satisfy me. Now, I think I asked you to suck me. So, be a good boy."_

_Sherlock knew there was no point in fighting him. He may feel disgusted with himself afterwards, but at least he felt something. So, Sherlock took Jim's length in his mouth obediently and began to suck, just like the good little whore he was. He felt Jim's hold on his head tighten, heard Moriarty's increased panting, and then the hateful man let out one word in a lust-filled moan, and Sherlock's heart sank._

_"Mine."_

Sherlock clenched his fists, fighting the urge to smash his own reflection. He covered his face with his hands, trying to keep his emotions in check. When he looked at the mirror again, his eyes were drawn to every nasty scratch, every bite and bruise that was clearly visible on his body. Carefully, he began to redress, covering up the ugly welts and scars, and being careful to place his scarf around his neck again, not leaving one red mark on display.

He thoughts returned to his current situation.

John. 

Caring, kind, genuine John. 

He's never going to understand. Will never forgive.

Sherlock had never felt so confused.

_What the Hell have he done?_

XXX

John was sitting on the sofa, perched on the edge, eyeing the bathroom door continuously. He was playing with his fingers nervously, unsure what to think about this whole crazy turn of events. Just what was going on? Was something really about to happen? And, if it did, could he be sure that it was actually a good idea? 

The way Sherlock had excused himself, the way the man had been so eager to get away, John could only think that this wasn't what Sherlock truly wanted. And how could John blame him? Not after everything he had been put through those past couple of months. Another man had brutalized him, and now here John was, his best, and only really true friend, ready to take their relationship to another level. 

_'What were they doing?'_

John was suddenly aware that Sherlock had re-entered the room. As John looked up, it came as quite a surprise that his friend had managed to dress so quickly. His hair was still soaking wet and he clearly didn’t want to look John in the eye. He was standing across the way from John, staring at the ground. As John watched him, Sherlock finally glanced up. Meeting Sherlock's gaze, something stirred deep within the doctor, and he stopped worrying.

He knew what he wanted. He had to start letting his heart lead him, not his head. He wanted Sherlock. He stood slowly, not taking his eyes off of Sherlock's, as he walked carefully over to the other man.

John reached out gently and took Sherlock's hand. 

“Do you want this?”

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't need to. John could see he was scared. 

Sherlock finally pulled his hand away and broke the silence.

“John,” he began, so softly that John had to lean closer to hear him. “Maybe we should think before we...” he paused, flustered. “Maybe we can talk about this...”

John smiled. He placed his hands on Sherlock's arms and just held him. “To be honest with you Sherlock, we've done more than enough fucking talking.” He touched Sherlock's face, caressing the other man's cheek. “There's no pressure. It's your choice. Do you want me, or not?”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment more. “I-I,” he stammered, “I don't know...”

John sighed.

"Yes, you do." John gripped both of Sherlock’s arms just slightly more tightly, so that he could turn him around, forcing his friend to face him. John was stunned to see tears starting to form in Sherlock's eyes. 

“It's okay,” John urged, wiping the tears away gently, and then pulling Sherlock forward, embracing him. After a beat, Sherlock awkwardly wrapped his arms around John, returning the sentiment. Finally allowing his inhibitions to fade, Sherlock leaned forward, resting his head against John's, enjoying the comfort.

A peculiar feeling came over John. He felt strange, light headed, and he pulled away, breathing heavily. He looking straight into Sherlock's large, sad eyes, and he released the other man's arms, bringing both his hands up to hold Sherlock's face instead. This was different to before, when he had kissed Sherlock that night, for comfort. This was something else altogether. Shocking himself as well as Sherlock, John leaned in, placing his lips against the detective's. They connected, kissing gently, savouring the closeness, and eachother's taste, until finally, Sherlock pulled away. He looked towards the exit, clearly wanting to make a break for it.

"I'm sorry, " he said softly. “I shouldn't have... I should go...”

John put a hand against Sherlock's chest, halting him. He kissed him again, this time more passionately. Sherlock was surprised to find he once again returned the kiss. Confused by his feelings, the detective moved his head, again pulling back. 

He was terrified that John would work it out, that he'd know what Sherlock had done, and he would hate him for it.

Sherlock needed to stop this before it went any further.

The truth was, however, that Sherlock actually felt more at peace, more at ease, in John's arms than he could ever remember feeling. He found himself quivering as John held his head tightly in his grasp, holding him still. He kissed him again and this time, Sherlock couldn't escape. Finally, he came to the realization that he didn't want to. He gave in. This was emotion and it was what he wanted, what he needed. To feel something. Anything. He kissed John back and he enjoyed it, sighing contently into the other's mouth. John, meanwhile, was just as confused and concerned at what was happening as Sherlock was. He had never kissed a man before Sherlock, and had never ever imagined that he ever would. But this just felt so right. This was how things were supposed to be with them, every part of his being was screaming at him to keep going, to go further, to make Sherlock his, to make Sherlock understand what love truly was.

John paused. Now, _he_ broke off the kiss. 

John has always believed himself to be straight. He, surprisingly enough, if he was honest as he had had ample opportunities in his life to experiment, had never been tempted to sleep with another man. And now? Sherlock was like no other person he had ever met, and John wanted to know him, know _everything_ about him. He was more than just a man, he was brilliant, exciting, fascinating. And strong enough to survive everything he had been put through. As far as John was concerned, he was a walking miracle. John could not have stopped this, whatever _this_ was, even if he had wanted to.

With a moan of pleasure, Sherlock stopped the kiss, and they both took big breaths. "John, maybe we should stop,” Sherlock pleaded, “Please. I'm not sure we should. You might not... I should tell you something..." His voice trailed off.

John smiled at him. “I know what you are going to say, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

“You told me, remember? You haven't done this before. Not like this.”

Sherlock swallowed. _'Oh God.'_

John squeezed his hand. “Don't worry about it. Seriously. You think _this_ isn't new for me too?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. It was almost as if he expected Moriarty to come running in and ruin this moment, to take John away from him. Something he suddenly knew would destroy him...

He couldn't lose John.

“There's something else, John. You won't want to hear it. You might not want me once you know...”

John chuckled. “Oh yeah?” He questioned. He was past caring. He wanted Sherlock, and he knew Sherlock wanted him too. He pushed the other man backwards, until Sherlock collided with the wall behind him. John took a hold of Sherlock's wrists, making sure at all times that he didn't hurt him, and reaching up as much as he could (considering how much shorter he was), he held them above their heads, keeping Sherlock still. Sherlock closed his eyes and bowed his head, enjoying another man taking control. In that moment, he realized that John understood him completely, and that his friendly simply craved for Sherlock to feel something special, just like John himself was feeling.

"You're not alone, Sherlock."

John began to touch Sherlock up and down his chest, pushing away his clothes, kissing and sucking on the other man's neck, around and underneath his scarf. Sherlock gasped, scared by the reactions his body was giving, and the fact that any moment now, John would see the state of him, the marks and other evidence of just how sick and disgusting Sherlock truly was, and then the incredible feelings would abruptly end. Sherlock was only just holding on, ready to surrender to John completely, but still so scared that if he did, John would realize the truth. And Sherlock would lose him. He didn't know entirely what was happening, these feelings were so different to the animalistic urges he felt when Moriarty touched him, but this felt so much better, and he didn't want it to end. John's own moans got louder as his hand moved lower and lower, not stopping until he reached Sherlock's trousers, and began to undo his belt, at all times whispering reassuringly into Sherlock's ear, and gently kissing the other man's throat. This isn't Anderson. That was what John was trying to tell him. But Anderson was not the problem. Sherlock actually felt faint, knowing that he was in another man's power again, and being surprised that he wasn't afraid. But it was still there, that doubt wouldn't leave him, the nagging voice inside of him that was screaming at him to stop, before it was to late.

John began to push Sherlock back towards his bedroom and Sherlock was in a state of confused panic. This felt perfect, he didn't want to pull away from John, he didn't want to not be kissing him but what would John think when he saw Sherlock's leftover remains of his latest night with Moriarty? John would not ignore those bites and scratches and bruises, not in a million years. He would ask questions and demand answers.

He still saw Sherlock as a virgin, despite what happened with Anderson.

Sherlock gasped, as John began to tug on the scarf around his neck.

_'Oh, God.'_

Sherlock grabbed hold of John's hand.

“No.” He growled. “John, please...”

“It's okay,” John whispered. “You're okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock's heart sank.

A loud beeping noise suddenly filled the air, making them both jump violently. They both stared towards Sherlock's mobile phone, with something akin to amazement.

John laughed, shaking his head. “That damned phone!”

Sherlock didn't revert his eyes from the phone. He was watching it as if it may explode. 

He wanted to ignore it. Whatever that text said, he didn't want to read it. 

John noticed.

“Why don't you see who the text is from then?” He asked, tugging on his shirt absent-mindedly. “It's probably only Mycroft.”

Sherlock looked at John sharply. “Mycroft?” He frowned. “Why?”

John cursed himself inwardly. “Oh, he's been worried about you recently. I can tell him he's got nothing to be bothered about though. It's all fine.” He gestured towards his room. “I'll just go and change quickly, I've been wearing these same clothes all night.” His eyes twinkled. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

He hurried into his room, his door banging shut behind him. Sherlock bit his lip. He was still unsure how to take all this. He cared a great deal for John, but things were complicated now. And that was his own doing; all owing to the sick games he was now unable to stop playing. He wanted John, that he knew for sure. He wanted John's touch, that kind, affectionate, loving touch. It was so different to what Sherlock was used too. It was different to anything he had ever felt before. 

John didn't want to hurt him, or control him, or take advantage of him.

John cared about him.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, as he finally reached over, plucked his phone from the table, and quickly read his new text.

The smile faded as he read.

_“Sherlock, I can see you. And you should know that I don't like it when someone else plays with my things. Basically, my dear, if John touches you again, he's dead.”_

Sherlock looked up abruptly. There was a small red dot hovering on the bedroom door John had just entered. And it was waiting there now, waiting for John to reappear.

The sniper was going to kill him.

Sherlock rushed to the window, straining to see any sign of the gunman beyond one of the windows in the building opposite. But there was nothing. Sherlock stared at the street below him, breathing hard. Baker Street seemed so cold, so dark. All the hope he had just been feeling, all that appreciation for John, it seemed to be soaked up into that darkness, leaving nothing but the usual pain and the fears. He turned around, looking back towards John's bedroom door. There was no light. The sniper had clearly been ordered to stand down. No need for deaths that night. The message had been received loud and clear. And Sherlock was obeying.

He started when John re-emerged from the bedroom, now wearing a more comfortable but very stylish combo of bottoms and one of his vulgar tee shirts. Sherlock was annoyed with himself. When would he ever stop? What did John's choice of clothes matter to either of them in that moment?

He knew Moriarty would not be patient for too much longer. The bastard would happily carry out his threat. Sherlock would have to think fast.

John, unaware of the immediate danger he was in, took a deep breath. He walked up to Sherlock, nervously. It was clear to both men that still neither of them truly knew what was happening between them.

Sherlock swallowed as John reached out and grasped his hand again, smiling reassuringly at him.

“You okay?” John enquired, squeezing Sherlock's hand once more.

Sherlock hesitated. He was scared, for many different reasons. He tried not to show it.

John would be able to tell just by looking at him. He'd know he was hiding something, John always knows.

And there was no getting away from what Sherlock truly wanted.

Wanted, but couldn't have.

Very carefully, John began to lead Sherlock towards his bedroom. 

And that was when Sherlock came to his senses. He wrenched his hand away from John's and backed away.

“I can't do this.”

John blinked. “What?”

“I have to leave.” There was no room for discussion in his tone. He was being hard, unkind, and he knew it. “Now.”

John shook his head. Sherlock's words were suddenly so cold and abrupt. Not to mention that any kindness or affection that John could have sworn he had just seen in those startling blue eyes was now gone, and only emptiness remained.

“B-But Sherlock,” John stammered, flummoxed by his friend's complete personality change. It suddenly struck him how embarrassed he felt. He hadn't felt so vulnerable earlier. Before, it had all just felt so _right._ Not any more. “I thought you wanted me,” he added, quietly.

Sherlock flinched.

“You thought wrong,” Sherlock blurted out. “You pushed me. I told you to stop.” He felt terrible. He couldn't stay there, couldn't face that look on John's face and deal with his accusations and clear disappointment.

_'You always will be a disappointment.'_

He tried to barge past John, making it very obvious that he was desperate to get away. John was having none of that. He took hold of Sherlock's arms tightly, hoping to hold the other man still for a second, to give himself the opportunity just to reason with him.

“You think I was going to force you? You think I'd ever make you to anything...” He shook his head. “Jesus, Sherlock! You think this is any easier for me?” John threw at him, the betrayal and hurt that he was feeling evident in his tone. “I have no idea what I’m doing either here, Sherlock!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “To be honest John, that's only too obvious. And I thought you were the one of us experienced in matters of the heart? Evidently not.”

John was dumbstruck and devastated. Sherlock hated to look at him.

The doctor swallowed hard, trying to form words. Why had Sherlock suddenly reverted to his cold, crass, unkind self? What was going on?

“I have to go,” Sherlock suddenly snapped. “Get out of my way.” John noticed, in that moment, that the other man was sweating, and, although trying his damnedest to hide it, trembling. 

John had never been more confused in his life. What the hell was going on?

“Sherlock, what-” he began, hoping to get some answers, or at least calm his friend down, but Sherlock cut across him again.

“This has all been a mistake, John,” he told the other man simply. “I should never have... you and I could never be...” He gritted his teeth, shaking his head, apparently at his own pathetic efforts to form coherent sentences.

John opened his mouth again, but before he could say another word, or even attempt to stop him, Sherlock was rushing to the door leading out to the landing, his mobile still clutched in his right hand. Gripping the door handle tightly, Sherlock seemed to hesitate, and then he turned back around, fixing John with an apologetic look.

“I'm sorry.”

Then, he was gone, shutting the door firmly behind him.

John stared silently at the now closed door, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do. Go after Sherlock? Try to reason with him? Forget any of this ever happened? As he stood there, musing, he was again interrupted by the sound of another buzzing mobile phone. This time, his own. With a sigh, he walked over to his jacket, and fished his phone out of his pocket.

His heart sank even lower as he read the text he had received:

_"Concerned I haven't heard from you, John. I gave you space; now I need an update. How goes it? Is Sherlock responding? Waiting for news. MH."_

John's blood ran cold. Perfect. As if things weren't bad enough already. What the hell was he meant to say to Mycroft?

He tossed his phone onto the ground and then turned away, the pressure finally becoming too much as he allowed one lonely tear to fall down his cheek.

XXX


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably warn you guys just how dark this story gets. And Mycroft is not a nice character here... that was where the muse took me unfortunately. I've had quite a few flames because of that reason (and yes, I do love Mycroft too, just not in this story!) so I thought I'd better point that out before we go any further... oh and Sherlock goes through the wringer in this story, even more so here than Worthless, and might not necessarily come out the other side completely unscathed, as one would expect... I took a long time trying to figure out how someone like him would deal with being raped, or some kind of ordeal that really affected him, and thought back to how he was in the pub scene in Hound. I basically took that and went with it. Maybe there is some ooc-ness involved, it was a tough task in the first place, but I think I did okay... :) Well, I hope I did anyway... :)

John was sitting in his chair, his hands propping up his chin as he stared at the ground. He was aware that it was very late, well past bedtime, but he had no plans to move from that seat. Bed was not an option. He and Sherlock had rowed once again that evening, and the other man had typically flounced out. John had said some things in the heat of the moment, and he wanted to apologise, make things right. Well, as right as he possibly could. 

It had been a week since that strange day, the day they had both nearly taken their relationship in a very unexpected direction. John had tried to take Sherlock to his bed. Just the thought made John cringe now. All he had managed to do was freak Sherlock out even more, and now the man wanted nothing to do with John. In fact, they had hardly spoken for the past seven days, not until earlier that day anyway. 

John had simply had enough. It had become too much for him, the atmosphere between them. The roles had been reversed from before, now John was the one constantly trying to get his friend to talk, and Sherlock kept running out on him. It didn't feel great, but John knew he had to keep trying. Sherlock would come round in the end. 

Well, that is what he had told himself. 

He had tried to talk to him that afternoon, and, obviously, Sherlock had had somewhere else he had suddenly needed to be. As always, that bloody mobile phone had alerted him to that fact. And he had left, just like that. This time, it had been different though. This time, John was not going to let that be the end of it. He had followed Sherlock out, onto the street, and had tried to get him to go back inside and talk. That was all John had wanted. Just to talk. And, very quickly, John's pleas had turned into a heated discussion, and before John knew what was happening, the two of them were yelling at each other. And John had said something very cruel, and incredibly stupid. He had not seen Sherlock since, and this had been about five hours ago. 

John glanced at the clock again. It was well past midnight now, how much longer was Sherlock going to be? John knew it was pathetic but he still got nervous when Sherlock was out this late. Being reminded of Sherlock’s vulnerability was unnerving, he wasn't perfect, he'd hit out but he hadn't meant those things he had said. Surely Sherlock knew that? John rubbed at his eyes. It was all just so damned frustrating. The arguments would keep on happening until they could both act like grown men and sort all of this out. John had been a fool to reveal his feelings, feelings he hadn't even known he had! If Sherlock now regretted what had happened between them, then he should simply be a man and tell John. It would hurt, but it would be preferable to this. And at least John would have the chance to put it behind him and work on repairing their friendship. Being stuck in this current limbo was not aiding his mindset. He needed to know where he stood. One way of another. 

He heard the door go, and he looked up quickly. He knew Mrs Hudson was tucked up in bed. Then he heard Sherlock on the stairs, and he tensed. John could feel the butterflies in his stomach, and wished Sherlock didn't have the effect on him. He got carefully to his feet.

 _Here we go._

Sherlock swept into the room, the door banging loudly behind him. He didn't bother to look at John as he strode towards the table and began to rustle through his papers, clearly trying to pretend that John wasn't there at all.

John watched him, unsure. He could tell from Sherlock's whole stance that he was still very annoyed after the disagreement earlier that day, and it was probably best to leave him to it, but John couldn't. He had to try and make amends for earlier. And, after all, he despised the silence. 

John cleared his throat, nervously.

What the hell was he scared of? Sherlock? Or maybe the likelihood of being rejected again?

Steeling himself, John stepped closer. “Sherlock?” He said quietly.

Sherlock didn't respond.

John reddened. “Sherlock!” He stated, much louder. 

Still, Sherlock did not react.

John waited.

Sherlock blinked. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “What do you want, John?” His words were so cold, so emotionless. John shivered, and very suddenly realised that perhaps he would have preferred Sherlock to have kept silent after all.

John dug his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to say...” he swallowed. “About earlier...”

“Yes?” Sherlock interjected, finally turning his head and fixing John with a stern glare. “What do you have to say, doctor?”

John flinched at the malice in his tone.

He tried to ignore it. Taking a moment to compose himself, John cleared his throat.

“What I said to you, about how you were...” He caught himself. “Well, you know, I said some things that I probably...” He couldn't finish the sentence, not with the intense way Sherlock was staring at him. He felt hot and bothered as he looked down at the floor, beaten.

Sherlock coughed loudly. “Having trouble remembering?” He asked him, his tone low, spiteful. “I think you'll find, John, that you demanded I see my idiot of a brother. And when I refused, you called me a miserable, arrogant, obnoxious, twat.” His eyes blazed. “A twat who, if I heard you correctly, _had it coming._ ”

John squirmed.

_'Oh, God. What have I done? How could I have said that? How stupid can you get?'_

“I meant Mycroft.” He said quickly and firmly, stepping ever closer to Sherlock and the table, wanting to force the other man to hear him. He didn't want Sherlock to push him any further away. “He really wants to see you. I don't know what he'll do if you don't agree...” He held out a hand, that Sherlock shrugged off angrily. “Please listen, I didn't mean...”

Sherlock swore, and banged his fist down hard on the wood, startling, and silencing, John. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock leaned down, against the table, and glared coldly up at John. “Oh, so that _does_ all ring a bell with you, after all? Good. _I'm glad._ ” His tone reeked of sarcasm. “I'm so relieved that there is in fact _nothing_ wrong with your short term memory. I was getting concerned.”

“Sherlock, stop it!” John snapped. He couldn't stand it. He wanted the ground to swallow him up.

Sherlock moved quickly, actually shoving the table out of his way to get to John. He cut the space between them in one long stride. “What do you want me to say, John? That I don't mind you shouting insults at me in the street in front of a bunch of gaping idiots? That it didn't hurt having you telling me that I deserved what that bastard did to me?”

John's heart hurt. “I know, Sherlock...” 

If Sherlock had heard him, he didn't show it. He cut across John furiously. “You left me there alone, standing like an idiot, as those fools stared and whispered about me. You want me to act like that didn't _matter_? Is that what you want, John? Well, sorry, no can do.”

With that, Sherlock marched to the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. John watched him go, letting out a big sigh as he once again found himself shut out by the man who he still desperately needed to be close to. He knew Sherlock was feeling betrayed by the fact that John even had contact with Mycroft, let alone him trying to convince Sherlock to talk to his brother.

He was fighting an already lost battle.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. John looked towards the door Sherlock had just slammed. Had he heard the phone? Knowing he shouldn't, but unable to contain his curiosity, John walked over to the phone and picked it up. Before he could even look at the text message Sherlock had received, the other man was upon him. John hadn't even heard the other man leaving the kitchen. Sherlock snatched the phone out of John's grasp and then backed away, as if he expected John to try and make a grab for it again.

“My phone is private!” Sherlock spat. “You don't go checking my messages behind my back. Do you understand, John? You never do that!”

John was startled, but not wanting to upset Sherlock further, muttered, “okay, okay,” under his breath. 

He was despondent, and felt that Sherlock was overeacting. It was just a phone. And it didn't take a Sherlock to figure out that the message was most probably from Lestrade. John felt a chill run through him as he watched Sherlock refering to his phone.

Was it really so important that Sherlock had no part in this, whatever _this_ was?

Sherlock was ignoring John now, his eyes locked on the text message, his expression unreadable. 

Finally, he spoke, though he did not look up.

“I have to go,” he stated.

_Evidently, it was._

“Sure,” John replied, submissively. “Course you do. Lestrade again, I'm guessing?” 

“Well,” Sherlock replied at once, distracted by his phone. “At least I know he wouldn't try to jump me.” 

John stared at him. He couldn’t believe his ears. Did Sherlock think that little of him?

With an effort, he steadied himself. “That was uncalled for. You’re acting like a brat.”

Sherlock didn't turn around, or try to respond. If John could have seen his face though, he may have been surprised.

His face, hidden from John, showed his regret at his inappropriate choice of words. And Sherlock, deep inside, was battling the need to turn back round to his friend, and apologise.

But there was to be no apology forthcoming. Instead, he looked down at his mobile again, and re-read the text he would have done anything to prevent John from seeing.

_“Ten minutes. Usual place. Please try not to be late, my dear. It's my turn today, and if John eats any more into my time, I won't be to happy with him. See you soon. Kisses. M.”_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Moriarty was becoming disappointingly predictable. Sherlock was almost bored. He almost become flippant now about it all, Moriarty, his games, even the sex. Except for the constant threats against John. He had to take them seriously. Jim was always very subtle, slipping John's name into the texts, reminding Sherlock just how much power Jim did actually hold over him. Jim knew how much Sherlock had to lose, and he could take John away with a snap of his fingers, if he wanted to. Sherlock would not give him a reason to see through on his threats. Jim held all the cards, and he knew it.

Sherlock could not lose John. If he lost John, he would lose himself.

_'Burn the heart out of you.'_

Sherlock’s eyes bored into John's.

“Don't look at my phone again. It's private.”

“Whatever you say,” came the frustrated reply. 

Sherlock was wrapping his scarf around his neck as he regarded John. 

“If I could tell you, John, I would. But its better for you if you don't know. Trust me.” 

John shrugged. “Okay.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “No touching the phone. I get it.”

Sherlock just stood there, his hands in his coat pockets. John watched him, wondering what was coming next.

Sherlock hesitated.

_'Say something nice to him. What would be appropriate?'_

A longer pause, as Sherlock searched for a good conversation point.

Suddenly, he found it.

_Ah yes._

“Are you seeing Sarah tomorrow?”

John frowned. “No. Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, why don't you call her? In the morning obviously. Too late now. Bit of normality will do you good.” He paused, clearly figuring out what to say next. “She can help you to,” he gestured waywardly, “to move on.”

John gaped. 

He didn't look at all happy, and the reaction took Sherlock by surprise.

Sherlock was thrown. Was this not a nice suggestion? He hated to be caught out.

“Did I say something odd?” He enquired frostily.

“How much practice did it take you?”

Sherlock was taken aback yet again. “What?”

“Before you turned being a heartless arsehole into an art form?”

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. Then, he smiled grimly, swung round, and quickly walked from the room. He didn't bother to close the door behind him this time. The front door though, John definitely heard him slam it. Loudly.

John hovered there for a brief time, bouncing from one foot to another. Every instinct was yelling at him to follow Sherlock, to make him listen, and understand. He didn't want to sit in his chair and worry for another whole night, wondering if Sherlock would make it home this time.

He wouldn't.

His face set, he grabbed his keys, and not bothering with a coat, he rushed down the stairs after Sherlock, throwing the front door open and hurrying out into the cold night, adamant that he would drag Sherlock back this time, and have it out with him, once and for all. 

He wrapped his arms around himself at once.

_Shit! It was freezing._

_What way did he go?_

He took off down an alley, instantly aware that it was getting darker with every step, and he had no way of lighting his route. He reached out into the blackness as he went, trying to feel for a wall. He knew this was pointless, that he had no idea if he was even going in the right direction, and even if he was, there was literally no hope that he could catch up with Sherlock.

_What have I done?_

_Sherlock, where are you? I'm sorry._

“John.”

John actually let out a very unmanly squeak when he heard his name being spoken out loud.

“Who's that?”

Then, a tiny spark filled him, warming him up, just for a second as he dared to hope.

“Sherlock?” He breathed.

He heard the new arrival sigh with something that sounded a lot like frustration.

“Try again,” The voice barked.

John's heart sank.

_Great._

“Mycroft,” he groaned. “What do you want?”

Mycroft stepped closer to John. The doctor could just make out his outline.

“I don't like your tone, John.”

John bristled. “Don't you?”

Mycroft chuckled. It made John's skin crawl.

“You shouldn’t be wandering about so late on your own, you know. There's lots of unscrupulous people about at this time of night, John.” 

John flinched. “Mycroft, are you threatening me?”

John heard the other man tut. “Really, John! We are on the same side.”

John scoffed at that. “I'm on Sherlock's side, actually.”

Mycroft continued, undeterred.

“I do have to inform you though, I am somewhat disappointed in you.”

“Oh?” His temper rising, John clenched his fists.

“Frankly, your mediocre efforts to support my brother thus far have not impressed me. I want to see some progress, John. Sherlock seems to be pulling further and further away from you, and it simply will not do.”

John was flustered. “You promised you wouldn't interfere...”

“And you promised that you could help my brother!”

“I need more time!”

“Time is up, John.” Mycroft was so close to him now, John could hear him breathing. It was more than that. He could practically feel the man's annoyance. “I, and others, need Sherlock and his brilliance to be kept under tighter control. If not, then he will be put under lock and key instead, where he will be given the help he requires.”

“Wait, back up.” John demanded. “What do you mean, _lock and key_?”

“I mean,” Mycroft said impatiently, “he will be kept safely out of the way.” A beat. “For his own good, of course.”

John was almost beside himself. Mycroft was nearly pressed up against him now, and he didn't like it. He knew the elder Holmes was dangerous, but in that moment, he didn't care. He wanted him no where near him. “Lock him up? Have him committed? Say the words! What do you _mean,_ Mycroft?”

“He is my brother.” Mycroft hissed. “I have his best intentions at heart.”

“Like hell you do!”

The tension could have been cut with a knife. John waited for Mycroft to speak again. He knew the older man was trying to control himself. John was very aware that Mycroft was as angry, and perhaps even as concerned, as John was. But he had no idea how to show it.

“Last warning John,” Mycroft whispered, finally. “Get through to him. Find out what Sherlock is hiding from the both of us with all of these night time disappearance acts and _put a stop to it!_ ” 

John heard the unmistakable sound of an object being scrapped along a wall. His umbrella, John assumed. Ready to be brandished as a weapon, perhaps? Was Mycroft that angry with him? 

Very likely.

“Bring Sherlock back, John, like you promised.” Mycroft must have turned his back, as his words sounded suddenly more muffled. “You have one more day to show me that your way works.” He cleared his throat. “Your _touchy-feely_ way. If not, then we try my way.” John could hear the amusement in his voice. “Though, truthfully? I don't think Sherlock would approve of my way as much as he did yours...”

“You smarmy, smug bastard!” John had never wanted to hit anyone so much in his life. Not even Anderson. Because this was different. Here was Mycroft, not only knowing what had gone on between him and Sherlock and taunting John about it, but he was also threatening to take Sherlock away, and John was not about to stand by and let it happen. It was taking all his self control, and better judgement, not to start pummelling Mycroft's face. He knew had to stay calm, though he felt anything but. “If you hurt him,” John muttered. “I swear to God...”

Mycroft moved so swiftly, John had no chance to try to defend himself as he was suddenly grabbed roughly and flung up against the wall. As John gasped, desperately trying to regain his breath, Mycroft smirked and placed his arm tightly against John's throat, cutting off the smaller man's air, and rendering him helpless. John could only watch, scared but defiant, as Mycroft leaned right in close to him. John could see his face clearly now, and the fury etched there. 

“Who do you think you're talking to?” Mycroft spat. “You need to...”

“No, he doesn't.”

They both jumped a foot in the air. Sherlock was stood at the end of the alley. John could have sobbed with relief that the man was safe, and that he had come back. A light filled the dark space, illuminating him and Mycroft.

At least Sherlock had been smart enough to take a torch.

“John doesn't need to do anything, Mycroft.” Sherlock continued, stepping closer to the pair. “You, on the other hand, need to let go of him. Right now.”

Mycroft cleared his throat, and fixed a very unconvincing smile on his face, as he released John, turning towards his younger brother.

“Sherlock! Thank Goodness! Are you alright?”

Sherlock looked from Mycroft to John.

“What's going on?” He enquired. “It really looked like I interrupted something,” he paused, before adding, “important.”

Mycroft chuckled. “Not at all. John and I were looking for you, that’s all.”

“Don't treat me like a fool, Mycroft,” Sherlock hissed.

“As if I would,” Mycroft retorted. His tone was belittling. He glanced at John, who was still clearly shocked by Sherlock's sudden appearance. The elder Holmes, had, typically, taken it all in his stride, of course.

“I need to talk to you,” Mycroft began. “Perhaps we should go inside?”

“I don't think so.”

“You think it would be better to stand in this alley, and discuss your current, ah, predicament?” He leaned forward. “In front of John?”

Sherlock froze. If John could have seen him in a proper light, he'd have noticed that his friend had completely drained of all colour.

Sherlock was struggling to know how to respond.

In his panicked state, he wondered if Mycroft knew the truth.

He scolded himself inwardly. Of course Mycroft knew! Mycroft knew everything... 

Mycroft was waiting. 

“Well, Sherlock?” He urged. “It's your choice.”

Sherlock's voice was strained.

“It's none of your business.”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft retorted, “You are my brother and your behaviour reflects upon me.” He had lost patience. “Sherlock, either we go back to your home now, and sort out the sorry state your life has become, or I will take matters into my own hands, and I don't think you'd care much for the result...”

Sherlock was visibly shaking, he was so angry. John didn’t know what to say. He knew he should be backing Sherlock up, that that was what Sherlock was expect, but he didn't understand what was happening. There was clearly some secret between the two brother, something John was not allowed to be party to, and he couldn’t help but feel that he had no right to interrupt. If Sherlock wanted John to be part of this, he would have taken John into his confidence a long time ago, the fact that he didn't proved to John he was not wanted. So, he stayed silent.

“What is it to be Sherlock?” Mycroft sighed. “If it helps, I promise to leave you and John alone once I have said my piece.” His heavy sarcasm was evident to both John and Sherlock. “I'm sure the two of you will have so much to talk through. It will be interesting, when everything is laid bare, to find out just how loyal John Watson truly is to you...”

John opened his mouth to clarify that query, but Sherlock reacted first. With a cry of rage, Sherlock sprang toward Mycroft, the torch brandished high above his head. It was clear he planned to use it as a weapon. In fact, as Sherlock rushed closer, John could see his face in the light, and the hate and rage he saw there made John's blood run cold. Sherlock would have killed his brother in that instance, given half the chance.

And Mycroft wasn't even flinching. He just stared solemnly at Sherlock, waiting for the blows to start landing.

John understood.

_This is what Mycroft wants. It’s the excuse he needs to lock Sherlock away, where he won't be a problem any more._

_No. Not going to happen._

_Not with him around._

John didn't even think. He threw himself in front of Mycroft, shielding him from Sherlock's frenzied attack, and, grabbing hold of his best friend desperately, John grasped the wrist that had raised the torch, and he began to squeeze. 

“Sherlock!” John hissed. “Stop!”

With a shout of anguish, Sherlock, unable to hold on, dropped the torch, and it clattered noisily as it hit the ground.

Sherlock looked as if he was going to fight John, beat the smaller man with his bare fists, but something stopped him. Something calmed him, and he stood, motionless, as John held him.

“You alright?” John whispered. “It's okay, Sherlock. Everything's good.”

Sherlock actually laughed. He pushed John away from him, not harshly but hard enough for John to know his comfort was not wanted by the other man in that moment.

“So,” Mycroft said quietly. It was as if he hadn’t even noticed that his brother had just launched himself at him. “Now you've got that out of your system, shall we act like adults?”

Sherlock shook his head, and looked away. His eyes looked big and sad when he finally returned Mycroft's gaze.

“Go to Hell,” he told him, pointedly.

“And join you, you mean?” Mycroft retorted, his eye brow raised. “You need help Sherlock.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock accepted. “But definitely not from you.”

“Sherlock,” John began. He grew silent when he saw the cold stare Sherlock gave him.

“Not from either one of you,” Sherlock finished. “Sorry I interrupted your meeting. Please continue.” Then, he turned his back on them, and began to walk back down the alley, back the way he had come. He didn't bother to retrieve his torch. Why should he? He knew where he was going back to. And besides, the fires were very bright in Hell.

John, distressed, gave chase after him, caught Sherlock up, and pulled on his arm.

“Sherlock, please...”

His friend tore his arm away, and glared at him angrily.

“Leave me alone, John.”

“Sherlock, its not how it looks...”

Sherlock rounded on John. “Then you _tell_ me how it looks!” He beseeched him. “Because it really looks like you and my brother made secret arrangements to meet and discuss me, behind my back. _Please_ tell me if I've deduced incorrectly!” 

He may as well have been begging. John could see the pain there, the defeat. John had let him down, betrayed him to the one man Sherlock had believed John was on his side against. It was a loyalty thing to Sherlock. How was John going to make this one up to his one time best friend? Would Sherlock give him the opportunity?

“I'm sorry,” John breathed.

Sherlock shook his head, and backed off slowly.

“Don't,” he mumbled. 

“Don't what?” John retorted. “Don't even _try_ to fix this? Is that what you are telling me?”

“Don't you apologise to me.”

John was taken aback. Was that sadness in Sherlock's tone? Maybe even, quite unexpectedly, some guilt?

John tried again.

“I was trying to help,” he continued. “And, although I know it's hard for you to believe, so was Mycroft. He has a lot of power, Sherlock. You know that. Please, just go back and talk to him.”

Sherlock paused. John couldn't read his expression. The taller man looked towards the alley, where they both knew Mycroft was waiting, listening to their every word. “Talk to him?” Sherlock repeated, softly. “ _To him_?” He leaned in then, until he was almost nose to nose with John. John felt every one of his hairs standing up on end. Since when did being this close to Sherlock have such an effect on him? “I came back to talk to _you_ ,” Sherlock added. “I wanted to put things right between us. I thought I could trust you. You _were_ my best friend. I was wrong about that.” He stepped back, as if he was actually realising that he truly meant the words only as he said them. “For once, I was _wrong_.”

He regarded the other man, and then turned, and began to walk away. John, not wanting the conversation to conclude that way, grabbed hold of Sherlock's right arm and tried to pull him back.

“No, wait. Sherlock-”.

Sherlock swore under his breath, and tore his arm angrily. “I thought you were with _me!_ On my side! Not with him! I thought you cared about me!”

“You know I do! This is crazy, Sherlock!”

Sherlock didn't look at John.

“Crazy? Yes. I suppose I am. How you must hate me, John. Upon my return, I will of course be advising Mrs Hudson that I will be looking for a new place to live as soon as possible.” He glanced at his former friend then, just before he began to walk away. “Goodbye, John.”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, but Sherlock had already vanished into the night. All John could do was stare after him, grief stricken.

He didn't even bother to react when Mycroft moved to stand beside him.

“That went well.” The elder Holmes offered.

John gave him a look that Mycroft understood only to well.

“Go after him, John.”

“I've already lost him.”

Mycroft frowned. “No, you haven't.”

He fished around in his pocket, pulled out a small piece of paper, and handed it to John.

“You'll find him there,” Mycroft told him. “And, be careful.”

John leaned down, scooped up the torch and switched it on. He then shone the light on the paper Mycroft had given him.

_23a Ash Line Court._

John stopped. He read the address again. Something was familiar.

“23a Ash Line Court,” John repeated. “Wait a minute.” He glanced up at Mycroft. “I know that address. There's an old warehouse, isn't it? Sherlock and I investigated a murder in that building recently. One of Moriarty's games...”

John froze.

He didn't like this one bit.

His temper rising, he waved the paper in Mycroft's face.

“You've known about this the whole time? You knew where he was going, and who he was meeting, and you didn't try and stop him? And you didn't even tell me?”

“My men just have orders to watch Sherlock. Unless the situation becomes intense, I have told them to hang back, and do nothing.” Mycroft looked down, the first glimpse of regret the older man had shown that night. “This is not their business, it's yours. This is your fight, John. You accepted responsibility for Sherlock’s recovery, you promised me you could put him right. Now is your chance to come through on that promise. You have to bring him back, save him. It's up to you.”

John swallowed hard. “You make it sound like Sherlock is in danger. He can handle himself against that bastard and his games.”

Mycroft hesitated. “He is in a lot of danger, John,” he said quietly. “He has no idea how much.”

“Then surely I'm going to need your help,” John demanded. “And Sherlock told me he was meeting Lestrade, maybe this is to do with his case, to solve Moriarty's latest riddle...”

“He's not meeting Inspector Lestrade, John.” Mycroft snapped. “He lied to you.”

A chill went through John. He had suspected that was so, obviously. But the way Mycroft spoke, John couldn't help but suddenly feel very nervous indeed.

“Then why?” John said softly. “And what is he doing?”

“Find out for yourself,” Mycroft whispered, and gestured in the direction Sherlock had just taken. “Better hurry, John. Maybe find a taxi? I can lend you the fare...”

“I've got my wallet, thanks!” John snapped.

“Good luck,” Mycroft told him.

John glared at the other man, trying to figure all of this, and him, out. He gave up.

Without another word, John turned, and walked away, heading back to Baker Street, leaving Mycroft to gaze after him. 

The elder Holmes stood perfectly still for a moment, a feeling of foreboding and guilt building within him.

He had no choice. The end justifies the means.

“I'm sorry, John.” He whispered. “I hope you understand one day.”

Very slowly, he walked away, using his umbrella to feel his way along, back to where he knew his Mercedes waiting.

XXX

The taxi pulled up a short walk from the warehouse just ten minutes later, and John was already scared witless about what he would find. He recalled Mycroft's ominous words, and he knew that Sherlock would tell him he shouldn't be there, that he shouldn’t be curious, that he should just leave and never think about that warehouse again.

John paid the fare, and asked the taxi driver if he would mind waiting a moment. The man had been very unimpressed but had nodded in response. John could only hope as he exited the car that the driver was being honest.

John entered the warehouse, and edged along the narrow corridor in front of him, feeling his way along the wall. He knew he had the torch in his pocket but he was unsure whether to use it or not. He wasn't so sure he wanted to advertise his presence there. Not if Moriarty was involved.

The warehouse was abandoned, John knew that from his last visit there. The place should be empty. But he knew it wouldn't be. He knew the truth was waiting for him, somewhere in that building. He just wasn't so sure now that he wanted to discover it.

He crept along, until he found a large wooden door blocking his path. Carefully, he pushed the door open, cringing by the creaking sound the door made. John found himself in a large room, and he remembered finding that poor girls body spread-eagled on the floor, right there, in that room, only a week or so ago. He shivered at the memory.

And then, he heard them. The grunts, the moans, and the cursing. He looked reluctantly, straining his eyes, and saw part of the room was lit up by the moonlight. Only at that moment did he even realise that it was a full moon that night.

He shouldn't have been surprised. The night had just taken a terrifying turn.

And, as he stepped nearer, his heart thumping in his chest, he got the shock of his life.

Sherlock was in the centre of a very large room. There was no furniture, no nothing. Just Sherlock, leaning over a body pinned down beneath him.

John looked closer, and his blood ran cold.

The person laying beneath Sherlock was one Jim Moriarty. Moriarty was on his back, facing Sherlock, his legs wrapped around the taller man, his head down, and his eyes squeezed shut. 

And Sherlock was fucking Moriarty. Brutally.

John shook his head, trying to deny what was right in front of him.

_'No. This can't... Please...'_

Sherlock was thrusting into his greatest foe furiously, grunting loudly, his head thrown back. John couldn't mistake the expression of pure pleasure on his friend's face.

For a split second, John assumed that his friend must have become a rapist, taking all his anger, hate and rage out on his greatest enemy.

John's world was fading away violently before him, with every brutal thrust.

_'Oh, God. What am I going to do?'_

Before the thought that his best friend's ordeal might have turned him into a monster had even fully sunk in, John's eyes fixated on Moriarty. And, to his even greater horror, John realised that Sherlock was not taking Moriarty against his will. On the contrary, it was perfectly obvious that Jim was enjoying what was happening as much as, or possibly even more so, than Sherlock was.

This wasn't rape. It was consensual sex. Between two men who despised each other’s guts.

_'Sherlock, how could you?'_

John just stood there. It was as if he was stuck to the ground, unable to look away.

He felt sick.

Then, John realised that eyes were on him, watching his every move. He looked up and, with mounting horror, saw that Moriarty was staring at him, a wide triumphant smile on his lips. As John watched, horrified, Jim winked at him and then, with a feral snarl, he dug his nails into Sherlock's flesh, and ripped down his chest, drawing blood and leaving angry red marks. Sherlock wailed in shock and pain, and Moriarty began to laugh.

John closed his eyes.

_'Please no. This isn't happening.'_

Thankfully, Sherlock, keeping his eyes screwed shut, was still oblivious to John's presence, and as such, was unaware why Moriarty had burst out laughing. John could see that his friend, or whoever this person was, for John was certain it could not be the man he believed he had known so well, was furious with Jim for laughing. In fact, he was raging.

“What's so fucking funny, eh?” 

The voice. It was so cold, so emotionless, so animal. It didn't sound like Sherlock. John wanted to get away from there, he wanted to run and never look back, but it was as if he was frozen in place by the sight before him.

Jim didn't reply to Sherlock, he just continued his high pitched, mocking laughter. John felt sick to his stomach as he watched the detective pull out of his enemy, only to flip him over onto his stomach, position him on his knees, and then once more thrust into Jim, more ferociously than before.

Jim howled in agony. When his eyes once again met John's, the Doctor could see that they were wet with tears. To John's increasing horror and shame though, he could hear that Jim was still enjoying the rough treatment. John could tell that both men were thundering towards their orgasms.

And still Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

Something stirred within John. Perhaps Sherlock closed his eyes as he didn't want to see what he's doing. Even he didn't see, maybe it didn't seem real to him.

“Mine,” Moriarty panted. “All mine.”

John shook his head before he even knew what he was doing.

_'No, he's not. You bastard. You won't win.'_

Sherlock was breathing faster now. John knew he was on the verge of his orgasm. 

John had seen enough. He backed away, his blurry eyes now averted, not wanting to focus on the horrific sight before him. Swallowing hard, he turned on his heel, and staggered towards the exit, clutching his chest, with the sound of Moriarty's mocking laughter still ringing in his ears. Finally, he felt the cold air, and had never been so relieved to be outside, in the darkness. He leaned against a wall, his eyes shut, his breathing laboured. He was trembling all over, and he knew it had nothing to do with the freezing winter chill. 

He opened his eyes. He may not be watching now, but the images were still there, in his minds eye.

He knew they always would be.

Sherlock and Moriarty. Together. _Fucking._

He heard the laughter, and the grunting, and the screaming. The smell of sex, all around him.

He couldn't prevent himself. Feeling a wave of nausea coming over him, he bent over and vomited onto the ground. He coughed, still retching, clutching his head in his distress.

He had to get away from there. He had to forget it. 

He needed to block it out, to stop thinking about it, _seeing it_

With one more glance over his shoulder to ensure that no one had been alerted to his presence and was following him, he turned and ran.

He didn't know where he was running to, nor did he care. Anywhere was better than there. He didn't stop until he was at least a mile away from that dreaded warehouse.

_Sherlock, what have you done?_

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock had been walking for some time. He had no idea for how long, or even where he was going. He couldn't even be bothered to care. He just wanted to walk, to think, to clear his head. His hands were stuck deeply in his coat pockets, his head was bowed, as he stared down at the pavement. He looked up infrequently, staring straight ahead, not seeing. As much as he could tell, and considering it was so easy to tell the time for him (thus proving to himself that he really didn't care), several hours may have passed since he had left Moriarty. Despite that, he could still hear the man's mocking laughter, see the glee in those crazed eyes as Sherlock had given in. Moriarty's laughter had only increased as Sherlock had fucked him viciously into the floor. The look on Jim's face, and the triumph in Jim's voice, as he had thanked Sherlock for his time and effort, it had all made Sherlock feel more worthless than ever. After their most recent encounters, Jim had even taken to offering to pay Sherlock for his services. As if he was nothing more than James Moriarty's willing whore.

Sherlock's reply had been to the point. He had used his fists. Even with blood dripping from his nose, Moriarty had _still_ laughed. He had walked away then, whistling a happy tune, leaving Sherlock to stare after him stunned. Sherlock again found himself wondering how Moriarty could take that kind of punishment in his stride? Sherlock had used him so brutally, not caring at all for Jim's comfort or satisfaction. All Sherlock wanted was his own pleasure, he didn't even think about the body beneath him. He hadn't even behaved like it belonged to a living, breathing human being. Sherlock knew, from his own experiences, just how much pain Moriarty would have been in, but still Moriarty had seemed unperturbed. In fact, he wad taken the punishment happily. 

Sherlock walked on. He wrapped his coat around him tightly, fighting against the coldness of the chill in the air, and the shivers that coursed through him thanks to his memories. It was so dark, no light from the moon or one single street lamp. The whole road felt so empty. There were no cars, no people walking by. No nothing. Just Sherlock and his thoughts. 

Sherlock thought back to earlier that night, and how he had made up his mind to put an end to his Moriarty addiction, once and for all. He had suddenly been so aware of how much he needed John, and how much John meant to him. He was aware, despite their argument, that John did still care about him. He, however, wasn't so sure that John would stand by him if he knew the truth about his nightly meetings with Moriarty. It was wrong of Sherlock to assume he could keep this _thing,_ whatever it was, hidden from John. John was more intelligent than Sherlock gave him credit for. It was true that Sherlock had left 221B Baker Street that day; so hurt, so annoyed that John would say such cruel truths to him, in full display of the whole of Baker Street. John actually made a mockery of him in front of all of those idiots. And then he chose just to leave him there, to be stared at. 

It had stung Sherlock. Badly.

So he had decided to punish John that night, and had gone to see Moriarty. He'd gone there to take what he, Sherlock, had needed, and to Hell with the consequences. That is what his meetings with Jim had taught him. The world didn't matter, it was just the two of them. They were equals in every way possible, and they would do whatever they wanted. They would treat the other however they wished. It was just between them. No one else mattered.

But of course, that wasn't true. Not on Sherlock's part. Someone else did matter. Someone else would always matter.

John Watson was never too far away from Sherlock's thoughts. And as Sherlock had walked, determined to see Moriarty and keep this horror show going, John's face had appeared before him. John, who was so worried, John, who cared so much and always tried to do the right thing. John hadn't meant to hurt Sherlock. He had just wanted Sherlock to face the truth, to make him understand any way he could. Sherlock's own stubbornness had not allowed him to realize that, until now. He had ignored his heart, ignored the feelings deep down that told him that John was only trying to help. 

That was why he had taken the decision to walk away from Jim Moriarty and return to John. 

He had gone back. Back to Baker Street, back to sort things out. And then he had heard the sounds coming from that alley and, typically for someone as curious as Sherlock, he had gone over to investigate. Besides, he knew deep down that he recognized those voices. And he had been right.

He had found out the truth. Found out that he had been mistaken in John Watson. Mistaken, perhaps, from the beginning.

Because John had betrayed Sherlock. Betrayed him to the one person Sherlock needed John on his side against. The one man who could annoy and belittle Sherlock more than any other. Yes, Moriarty could confuse him, hurt him, break him. Maybe one day kill him. He could take John away, that was certainly true. Sherlock couldn't protect John every waking moment and Jim was very aware what Sherlock's only true weakness was. So, Jim could take John that way, but he could never turn the man against Sherlock. Sherlock knew, with absolute clarity, that John would never betray him to James Moriarty.

But Mycroft? Sherlock could no longer trust in that.

Seeing John and Mycroft together had gotten to Sherlock deep inside, more than he would ever care to admit. He needed John with him against his brother. Didn't John know what was important to Sherlock? Didn't he understand by now?

Sherlock knew that John and Mycroft had been disagreeing over something, but he had been too thrown by seeing them together to care. They had agreed to meet, to discuss Sherlock, no doubt, and that hurt so damned much. Sherlock felt confused, and so hurt, just by seeing the two of them. He had felt a surge of hatred for Mycroft in particular, especially as his brother had been threatening John. Despite his anger, Sherlock still could not stand the thought of any one harming John. Even when John was betraying him, still Sherlock cared. And he hated that fact. John made him weak.

Not any more.

Sherlock had decided what he would do. He would go back to Jim and take what he wanted. Why did it matter now? If John had gone behind his back, plotting against him with his brother, why shouldn't he take what he wanted, from a piece of scum like Jim Moriarty? He had certainly taken Jim in every way possible. It had been Jim's turn to take control, which had meant Sherlock should have done whatever Jim had wanted him to do. but this time, Sherlock had not given Jim the opportunity. He had grabbed the smaller man at once, using his greater strength to pin the man beneath him, and then he had taken what he wanted. Jim had been more than willing, laughing and mocking Sherlock the whole time, revelling in what he had turned his enemy into. 

Sherlock knew what he must have looked like. He had seen himself in his mind’s eye as he had thrust into Moriarty. He knew who he had become. Anderson. Always there, always trying to find a way back in, and Sherlock always found himself letting him. 

He had become no better then Anderson. Taking what he wanted, what he craved, giving into his very basic urges, just to prove a point.

_'How will this all end?'_

And once it did, what would he have become?

XXX

John had been pacing the room for a couple of hours, not able to settle, waiting for Sherlock and the ugly conversation he knew they would have. No matter how John tried, he couldn't get his head around this. What was wrong with Sherlock? John knew he would never get the images of Sherlock and Moriarty out of his head. They would haunt him forever. 

_'What the Hell was going on? How could Sherlock do this? And what exactly will Mycroft do when he finds out?'_

Why would Sherlock go to Moriarty? For what reason? How could he be in his right mind? And what did this mean? Was it just fucking? Or were the two foes now involved in some kind of twisted relationship? Just how far gone was Sherlock? Was there anything left of the man John knew for him to get through to?

As John was still trying to work through his thoughts, he heard the door open downstairs. 

_'At last.'_

John sat himself down in his chair, trying to look as normal as possible, as he heard Sherlock on the stairs. The doctor had just poured himself another glass of Vodka and was putting it to his lips as Sherlock walked through the door.

He was slightly taken aback to discover John was waiting for him.

“What time is it?” He enquired.

John glanced at the clock. “I'm not sure. Three-ish?”

Sherlock, pulling off his coat and folding it over the back of a chair, regarded John with interest. “What are you still doing up?”

John shrugged. “I was waiting for you.”

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk.”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders theatrically. “If you say so.”

John bristled. He should have known not to expect friendly conversation, not after how furiously Sherlock had left him in that alley. All he wanted to do was grab Sherlock by his shoulders and scream angrily into his face: “I know what you've been doing. And who with!” But how could he? Just how was he supposed to break it to Sherlock that his secret rendezvous were no longer as secret as he thought? And how would Sherlock react to that news?

Sherlock, meanwhile, was watching John intently. When John looked at him, he couldn't help but shudder.

Sherlock gave him a small, rather grim, smile. “So, did you and Mycroft part on good terms?”

John waved his hand dismissively.

“I don't want to talk about Mycroft, Sherlock.”

“Oh? And why's that?”

“I'd prefer to talk about you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure. Mycroft would probably prefer that too. I'm sure he will get the low down on our conversation soon enough, right, John?”

John was offended. How could he not be? “Is that what you honestly think of me?”

Sherlock watched him. “That's the problem, John. I don't think I do know you any more.”

John could have laughed. “You're one to talk.”

Sherlock frowned. “What-” he began, but John cut across him.

“Mrs. Hudson is out tonight.”

“So?”

“Well, are you still planning to look for somewhere else to live?”

Sherlock eyed him coldly. John hated the intensity in those eyes. He felt like Sherlock could see right into him.

“You think this is working?” Sherlock asked, at last.

“Is that my fault?” John retorted, crossing his arms across his chest, defensively.

Sherlock then fixed him with a cold stare.

“Did I say it was?”

John frowned. _Typical Sherlock._ Turning an argument into a game. Only, John definitely didn't feel like playing at that moment.

“Do you always have to answer a question with a question?” He snapped.

Sherlock blinked. “Do you?”

They stared at each other for a moment, neither knowing what to say or do next. Finally, Sherlock made the first move. He crossed the lounge quickly, heading for his bedroom, and slamming the door pointedly behind him.

John wasn't having it this time. After a seconds consideration he rushed after Sherlock and threw open his door. Sherlock had already unbuttoned his shirt and he seemed surprised by John's sudden entrance. John no longer gave a damn about protecting each other’s privacy. They had to put this right. Whatever it took.

“Do you mind?” Sherlock spat, his eyes narrowing.

“Not really,” John threw back. “Is this what you do now when the going gets tough? The great Sherlock Holmes? Turn and run away?”

Sherlock was just about keeping his anger in check. John could see the other man was on the verge of losing his cool, but he was too annoyed, too frustrated, to care.

“This is my room, John. And you aren't wanted here. So leave.”

“I'm not stupid, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glowered. “Well, seeing how you seem incapable of grasping the meaning of the words _go away,_ I beg to differ.”

John wanted to grab him, he wanted to make him lose the attitude and get to the man inside. He and Sherlock had been so close, especially after the swimming pool incident. Moriarty had nearly killed them both that night, the same man that Sherlock was now intimate with? John had to understand. Sherlock owed him an explanation, at the very least.

John tried again.

“Why don't you ever tell me the fucking truth, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock kicked one of his shoes across his carpet, making John jump slightly from the sudden noise. “Because you aren't _listening!”_

John couldn't prevent himself any longer.

Glaring daggers at Sherlock, John spat at him; “Is _that_ why you go to _him_ then?”

Sherlock stopped. He didn't say a word, or even turn to face John. John just stood there, breathing hard, waiting for the other man's reaction. 

Finally, Sherlock turned around and gazed at John, his big blue eyes wide and shocked.

“What did you say?”

John grimaced. It was much too late to regret his outburst now. He had to see this through, no matter how much he wanted the ground to swallow him up. “So, tell me. Is Moriarty a better listener than me? Or is it only for the sex?”

Sherlock continued to stare at him. After a beat, he nodded, as if to himself.

“You followed me?”

John couldn't help but bristle. Is that all he could say?

“Does it matter?”

Sherlock blinked. “Well, I'm surprised you managed to hide from me. I can usually hear you coming from half way down the street; you're always so noisy and heavy footed. Even your breathing is loud; you advertise your presence long before you speak. I could have sworn I was fully aware of every sound...” Ignoring the fact that John was becoming more red-faced with fury at every single word, Sherlock paused and considered the other man carefully. A moment went by and then the taller man smiled grimly. “Of course. Mycroft.”

John jerked his head. Why was he experiencing a flash of guilt? What the Hell did he have to feel guilty about? “Mycroft gave me the address, yes.”

Sherlock smirked. “The two of you, working together. How cosy.”

John glowered. “Grow up, Sherlock. This isn't about Mycroft and me. This is about you. I _saw_ you with him.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, evidently. You followed me and saw something you wish you hadn't seen. And yet, it's apparently all my fault that you saw what you did. How depressingly transparent you are sometimes, doctor.”

John was beside himself, just managing to contain his anger. 

“Do you know what I saw you doing?”

“I can imagine.”

“Do you care?”

“Should I?” Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers, much to John's embarrassment. Was the man really going to carry on undressing with him in the room? Sherlock, clearly unconcerned, continued to speak. “It was your choice to follow me.”

John cut the distance between them in a couple of strides, his fists clenched at his sides. “Do you have any idea how it felt for me to see you like that? You disgust me right now, do you know that? Even being this close to you is making me want to throw up!”

“Get out then,” came the sharp reply.

John glared. “What is the matter with you, Sherlock? How could you? I'm not just disgusted, I'm disappointed. I don't get it! Is that what you think you're worth? Letting a monster like that touch you? It's sick! You're sick!” He paused, breathing heavily. He knew he was ranting, but he couldn't help it. He could still see Sherlock; see him fucking Moriarty, unable to get the images out of his head. He shook his head, dismayed. “Why, Sherlock? Why would you lower yourself to this? To _him_?”

Sherlock stared at him. He looked down, hesitating. Finally, he replied, so softly, “Because Moriarty wanted me.”

John stopped. He gaped at Sherlock. “You are sleeping with Moriarty! Don't you fucking dare to push the blame for this onto me!”

Sherlock frowned. “You wanted to know. You followed me. I didn't ask you to, I didn't invite you. This is my life, John. You've stuck your nose in where it isn't wanted.”

“So, it's none of my business?” John covered his face with his hands wearily. “Is that what you're saying?”

Sherlock pulled off his trousers, throwing them to the floor in a heap. He was standing there only in his shirt, boxers and socks now. John wanted to avert his eyes but something made him keep staring. It was as if he was mesmerized. He couldn't look away, no matter how uncomfortable he felt.

“You pushed me away, you didn't want me,” Sherlock told him, simply stating facts. “Moriarty was there, offering himself to me on a plate. It seemed unimportant, just a way for me to feel something other than the pain and the shame. It's nothing more than that, John.”

John shook his head. “Like I said: Is that all you think you're worth?”

Sherlock actually smiled. “I think you know the answer to that.” He glanced down at his bed. “I'm tired John, so if you would excuse me...”

“You don't sleep,” John blurted out.

Sherlock was staring at him intently again. John wanted to look away, but he couldn't. 

“Leave me alone. We have nothing left to say.”

“Don't push me away,” John whispered.

“I already have,” Sherlock told him. “I start searching for a new place to live tomorrow. For now, it's over. So please, just leave now.”

John shook his head. He would not make this easy for Sherlock. Not after everything they had been through.

“I'm not going anywhere.” John retorted. He knew he sounded like a stubborn fool but he didn't care. He would not give Sherlock up without one last fight. He couldn't. “You want me to go? Make me.”

Sherlock suddenly looked more tired than John had ever seen him. “Please, John. Just do as I ask.” Even after his ordeal at Anderson's hands, John painfully realized that this was worse for Sherlock. Because this was John, and Sherlock truly did believe he had lost his closest friend. John could finally see, despite Sherlock's defense mechanism, that losing John was ripping Sherlock apart. 

John shook his head stubbornly. “I'm staying right here. With you.”

When Sherlock did make his move, John was surprised. Sherlock grabbed at the smaller man, holding him firmly in a tight grip, and began to drag John towards the door, obviously planning to remove him forcibly. John, though, was having none of it. He fought for all he was worth, digging his heels in, and hitting out at Sherlock with his fists. They wrestled for a moment, throwing each other around, both adamant that they would be the winner. Sherlock, unrelenting in his efforts to force John away from him, and John desperate to stay at Sherlock's side. Finally, Sherlock's greater body weight and strength won, and he ended up pinning the still fighting John against a wall. Both of them were panting with exertion, their eyes wild, and their “supposed” hate for the other, and their useless situation, evident. 

“Do you want to know, John? Do you want to hear all about it?” Sherlock’s lips were against John’s throat now. “You want to hear about how I got down on my knees for him, and sucked him? How I let him ram his cock down my throat again, and again, until I couldn't breath any more, and I begged him for mercy?” 

“Stop.” John moaned. “Just stop.”

“Does it turn you on, John? The thought of me with Jim, and all the sordid, twisted acts we did together?”

“Sherlock, please!” John knew he was whimpering, knew he sounded pathetic, but he didn't care. “Please, don’t.”

Sherlock stared at him. Finally, he released his grip, and backed away carefully. He looked away from John, no longer able to meet his gaze.

“Just leave me alone, John,” Sherlock whispered dejectedly. “I’m not worth it.”

“You are.”

“Damn it, John,” Sherlock growled, grabbing the other man by his throat and squeezing. “Why won't you let this go?”

“Because I can't…” John hissed back, devastated. “I can’t lose you!”

“Why?” Sherlock breathed.

There was a beat while John considered his answer. Finally, he replied, “Isn't it obvious?”

Sherlock’s gaze bore into John’s. And then, he leaned in, pressing his lips against John's and kissing him passionately. John was too surprised to react for a second, but then he gave in to his desire, kissing Sherlock back. The kiss was long, angry and needy, both men trying to take control. Sherlock devoured John with his kiss, his passion so strong that when he did finally pull away for air, he left John gasping, trying to catch his breath. They stared at each other, breathing harshly, both trying to take stock of their new, surprising situation. Sherlock recovered first. Grasping hold of John once again, Sherlock spun the man round and shoved him down onto the bed, not allowing John a chance to come to his senses and try to stop this. Sherlock then climbed on top of John, straddling him. He tore at the other man's shirt, ripping it off of him angrily, and once he had him bare chested and writhing beneath him, he began to lick and suck his chest, teasing him, feeling John's enjoyment, taking advantage of the experience he had gained from his encounters with Moriarty.

John was almost delirious.

What was happening? This wasn't right. He didn't want it, not like this.

_'I wanted this to be loving. I wanted him to know that this is not the only way.'_

“Sherlock,” John gasped. “Wait.”

Sherlock paused. “What's wrong?” He asked, teasing John with his tongue, and stroking him through his trousers. “This is what you want, isn't it?”

“Not like this,” John whimpered. “Please, don't.”

Sherlock frowned. He sat back on his hunches, looking down at John. “You don't want me?”

John stared back. “I,” he hesitated, “I need you to stop...”

Sherlock pursed his lips together. John could see a flash on his face, just for a second. Disappointment and, most tellingly, shame. “I see.” He moved off of John, now standing beside the bed. “If you don't want to play, John, you can go.” He jerked his head towards the door. “Now.”

John held up a hand in surrender.

“Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock didn't want to hear it. He walked to the door and opened it. “I said, now.”

This time, it was John's turn to lose control. Launching himself off of the bed, he grappled with Sherlock again, wanting to beat some sense into the other man if he had to. Gripping Sherlock's shirt, he pulled at it, tearing the shirt away, and then stopping dead in complete horror as he took in the mess that was the other man's chest. He stared, wide-eyed, at the red nail streaks, the burns, the scars, and, most frighteningly, what looked very much like nasty, and very recent, whip marks. 

Sherlock seemed to be frozen on the spot, breathing hard. He grabbed his shirt back from John, and began to slip it back on, quickly covering up the evidence once more.

John wanted to cry, but knew he couldn't. He knew Sherlock would be unimpressed.

“What has he done to you?”

Sherlock said nothing. Red faced, and not wanting to look at John, he scooped up his trousers from the ground and pulled them on. John could only stand there, horror struck, watching him.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. “Talk to me. Did he whip you?”

Sherlock looked up. His face was blank, there was no emotion. “It doesn't matter.”

One tear escaped down John's cheek. He couldn't stop it this time.

_'Jesus.'_

“How can you say that?” John took a step forward. _“What's wrong with you?”_

Sherlock stopped at the door, holding it open. “Goodbye, John.”

“No!” John would not let it end like this. No way. “Sherlock, let me help you!”

“You can't help me.”

“I can! That bastard, Moriarty. He did this to you, it was all him.” He could feel the hatred for Moriarty swelling up inside of him. “He beat you, hurt you. He took advantage of you...”

“John, don't you understand?” Sherlock rounded on his friend, angrily. “I let him!”

John was dumbfounded. 

He let that murdering psycho touch him, hurt him, whip him? How could he?

“Why?”

“Because I needed _something!_ I needed to _feel!”_ Sherlock exclaimed. “And you,” he had a moment's hesitation before he added, “You weren't there.”

John closed his eyes. What could he say? Sherlock was telling the truth. John had let him down, and badly. Jim had been right there, giving Sherlock what he thought he needed. No matter how sick, how degraded, how wrong that turned out to be.

_How could he blame Sherlock?_

“All I see when I close my eyes is _him.”_ Sherlock continued, though he had now averted his eyes away from John's. John could still hear the pain in his voice though, clear as day. “The pain made me forget. All I can feel apart from when I'm with Jim is _him_ touching me... tainting me...” His voice became no louder than a whisper. “ _Raping_ me...”

_'Shit.'_

It wasn't Moriarty he was talking about now. And that realisation slowly dawned on John.

_'Oh, Sherlock.'_

“That wasn't your fault, Sherlock!” John was desperate. “You don't have to punish yourself for what Anderson did to you any more. That's all over. Done with. You said yourself, Anderson has gone, and he isn't coming back.”

Sherlock shook his head solemnly. “He hasn't gone anywhere. Not for me.” He tapped the side of his head. “He's right here. Right now.”

John moved closer, reaching for the other man's hand. “You don't have to let him in, Sherlock. You can shut him out.” He lowered his voice as he tried to press his point. “Can't you see what’s really happening here? Moriarty is using your fears, your memories. He's abusing you too. Manipulating you into what he wants you to be.”

Sherlock stared at John, unblinking. “And?”

John's eyes widened. “ _And?_ Sherlock, he wants to destroy you and you're letting him!”

The reply was emotionless. “What else is there for me?”

“You've got me!” John was pleading. What would it take for him to get through to Sherlock? Why wouldn't the man _listen?_ “God! Let me help you!”

Sherlock smiled grimly. He walked through the open door, back through to the living room. John followed him, still praying for a chance to get through to his friend, but as Sherlock turned to face him, John could feel any hope fading fast. There was no amusement on his face, though. His eyes were so empty, so cold, so _black._ “Haven't you realised yet? You can't help me, John. The best I can do right now is get the Hell away from you before I ruin you too.”

Ignoring John's whispered pleas, Sherlock swept his large coat around his shoulders and, without looking again towards John, marched towards the door. He threw open the door and rushed out. John tried to call out after him, tried to follow, but Sherlock had disappeared by the time John had gotten to the bottom of the stairs. John pulled open the front door, leaned out, and called Sherlock's name. There was no response. He assumed the man really didn't want to be followed this time.

It didn't matter, anyway. John knew where Sherlock would go, whom he would go to. And John certainly didn't need any more images of Sherlock and Moriarty in his brain. The thought sickened John. Sherlock would go straight to him, back to that bastard, back to whatever sordid, dark place Jim would take Sherlock to. The saga would continue, Jim would get exactly what he wanted, and Sherlock would lose yet another piece of himself. Soon, there would be nothing of Sherlock left to fight for and all John would be able to do is stand and watch.

Sherlock was in such a state, John hated to imagine what Jim would do to him, and, even more horribly, what Sherlock would allow him to do.

John was in a quandary. Just what was he supposed to do about this? Sherlock was pulling away from him, Moriarty was winning, and it was only a matter of time before John would lose his friend completely. He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't. He had promised to help Sherlock, to bring him back. He would ensure that happened, whatever it took.

Taking his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket, John drew a long, shaky breath as he pressed a button, and then held his phone to his ear. John stood there, regretting his actions more with every passing second, just making up his mind to cancel the call and find another way, when suddenly the call was answered.

“Hello?”

John's heart sank.

Could he really do this? 

Where would it end for them both?

And what exactly would he buy with his thirty pieces of silver?

“Mycroft?” He knew he was trembling and was very aware that Mycroft would easily pick up on that fact from the sound of his voice. He tried to steady himself before speaking again. “It's John Watson.”

“Yes, John?” John felt even more like a traitor when he heard Mycroft's soft, clipped tones in his ear. “Everything alright?”

John took a deep breath.

_'What am I doing? I can't do this.'_

A pause.

He had no choice. He couldn't help Sherlock. But perhaps Mycroft could find someone who would. Maybe this was Sherlock's only chance. John would not let Moriarty destroy his best friend any further.

_'That was not going to happen.'_

He gripped the phone tightly, and closed his eyes as he said the words that he knew would change everything.

“I need your help.”

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long.

John was keeping one eye on the clock, the other on the door. Some thirty minutes had passed since his telephone conversation with Mycroft, and John had already begun to regret his decision. What had he done? And what would happen now? He had betrayed Sherlock, and he honestly had no idea how Sherlock would deal with it. It hurt John to imagine Sherlock's face when he found out the truth. John's greatest fear was that nothing he'd ever say would make things right with Sherlock after this. He knew he could be losing his best friend forever and the thought terrified him. 

At least he knew Sherlock wouldn't lose himself at the same time, though.

John closed his eyes tightly. What exactly was Mycroft planning to do? He had promised John that he would deal with the “problem,” as he had called it. What that actually meant, John didn't know. It riled him massively that Mycroft saw his troubled younger brother as a problem that needed sorting. It was so cold, so disconnected. John rubbed at his eyes. Why should any of this surprise him any longer? This was the Holmes family. If one ever dared to show any true compassion for the other, John was pretty sure that the world would stop spinning for that split second.

Of course, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes and told him that none of that mattered. The world spins, does it? Who gives a toss? Unimportant.

John couldn't help but smile at the memory. How he missed _that_ Sherlock. Yes, the man was infuriating, uncaring, rude and obnoxious, but he was also John's best friend. John would do anything to see him again. John knew what he was getting from day to day with _his_ Sherlock Holmes. He knew how to respond to him. This new version was another matter entirely. And, as Mycroft had predicted from the start, John couldn't help Sherlock now. He just didn't have a clue what to do. And that was why he had had no choice but to turn to Mycroft for his assistance. As much as it pained him to admit defeat, he knew in his heart that it was the only thing left for him to do.

Give in to Mycroft, or lose Sherlock forever to Moriarty.

All he could pray for now was that he hadn't left it too late to save Sherlock.

John shuddered.

What if he had waited too long? He should have listened to Mycroft earlier. What if he'd already managed to do more harm than good?

Or what if he was making the mistake _now?_

The familiar sound of his mobile buzzing interrupted John's musings. He groped in his pocket for his phone, took it out and glanced at it. Then, he frowned.

_“Stay calm, John. Concentrate. I need you to be ready. MH.”_

John looked towards the window. Great. He had expected that he was being watched, every move he made noted and recorded, but it was still a shock when it was revealed to him. And it rammed home something else too; Even if he did have second thoughts about this, it was far too late to change the course of action now. He had made his choice, and he had brought Mycroft in. Now, he would have to pay the price, whatever that price ended up being. 

He thought back to his conversation with the older Holmes, and what his part in this “operation” was to be. He was to wait for Sherlock to return, however long a wait that turned out to be, and then get him out of the house. Whatever it took. John was to take Sherlock to a bar or a coffee shop of his choosing, and then wait for further instructions. John shook his head wearily. It shouldn't have to be like this. It felt so cloak and dagger, sneaking around, trying to trap Sherlock. Turn Sherlock over to the one man John believed Sherlock distrusted the most. Even more so than Morairty. Mycroft was Sherlock's brother, his main rival. For John to hand Sherlock over to Mycroft like this... Well, John knew one thing for sure. Sherlock would never forgive him. 

John glanced at the clock yet again. Sherlock actually had to come back home first. John wasn't even sure that he'd bother. Did he even think there was anything woth coming back for? What if he'd gone for good? 

What the hell was John supposed to do then?

He swore loudly as his phone buzzed once more. He glared down at the newest text.

_“He's on his way back now. Approximately 5 more minutes MH.”_

John felt a wave of anger on Sherlock's behalf. What gave Mycroft the right to follow Sherlock's every move? John gave himself a shake. Of course Mycroft's people would follow Sherlock. 

It was just a shame having Big Brother watching him couldn't save Sherlock from being raped, or stop him falling into Moriarty's welcoming hands...

John shuddered just thinking about it. Moriarty's hands on Sherlock, touching him, claiming him. Again, John could see the two of them together, Sherlock holding Jim, thrusting into him, making him his property. John still couldn't understand what had possessed Sherlock to look, above everybody, to James Morairty for comfort. 

A nagging voice inside his own head answered him: 

_Because, in Sherlock's broken, twisted mind, that was probably what this was. He wanted to feel, he had told John that. And Moriarty had offered himself to Sherlock to be used, no fee._

Well, there was a fee though, wasn't there? Sherlock's very soul was at risk. And that was what John was now fighting for. 

And that was why this _had to be_ the right thing to do.

The _only_ thing to do.

John closed his eyes wearily.

_Maybe if I keep telling myself that, I'll really start to believe it._

His phone suddenly rang.

He swore. What was Mycroft playing at? Calling him when Sherlock was just about to walk back in? And, he saw, angrily, that the git was withholding his number! Is that how much he trusted John? Not up to Mycroft's usual high standards. John had a contact number for Mycroft! What was this now? A big important super secret phone line that ordinary plebs like John Watson could not be party too? All this just succeeded in winding him up all the more, as, frowning, he answered the call on the fifth ring.

“What is it? You just told me...”

“Hello, John.”

John stopped dead. 

_Shit._

It wasn't Mycroft.

Taking a moment to collect himself, and trying his damnest to keep his voice steady, he replied, softly: “Moriarty.”

Moriarty let out a high pitched squeal.

“Oh, lovely! You do remember me. It's been so long since we last spoke, I was concerned you had forgotten.” He paused, apparently musing over his words. “But, saying that, we did see each other very recently didn't we? Sorry I didn't speak, I was quite, ah, distracted at the time, shall we say?”

How John hated that irritating Irish twang. How he wished he could shut James Moriarty up for good.

“What do you want?” John growled, grasping the phone tightly.

“Not very friendly, Johnny boy.” Moriarty scolded him. “Be careful, you could hurt my feelings, you know.”

“If only you had feelings to hurt, you bastard. You need to be human for that though, and you don't qualify.”

“Now, now.” Jim continued. His tone was still playful but there a dangerous edge had crept in. “Be nice. There's a good pet.”

“If you have nothing worthwhile to say,” John threw back, trying to sound unconcerned, but failing. “And, lets face it, you most likely don't, I think I'd like to hang up on this conversation right now. Thanks for calling me, though. Nice chatting.”

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” The Irish accent had slipped. Now, Jim sounded annoyed.

“Oh yeah? Why not?”

And, quick as a flash, the playfulness was back. “That's the spirit, doctor!” 

John glowered. It was impossible to read the man. Another sign of just how clever he was. 

“You might want to look down at yourself.” Jim continued. “And no, I don't mean your flies are undone.”

John didn't move. He didn't need to look to know what Moriarty's words meant. At that second, there would be a tiny red dot, maybe more than one, hovering right over John's heart. Curiosity getting the better of him, John did steal a glance, and sure enough, he was targeted. He swallowed the sense of panic threatening to grip him, knowing Moriarty would need no excuse, and he looked toward the window, furious with himself for standing right in front of it. He should have been aware of the danger. Mycroft wasn't the only one watching him, Jim Moriarty was too. And probably had been for some time.

John blinked. Mycroft. Could he see John right now? Would he know John was in trouble, that Moriarty had contacted him?

How could he get a message to him?

Standing there, motionless, like a sitting duck, John looked back at the window.

“Snipers,” he whispered. “Very original.”

“Yes, I know. Sorry about that. Serve their purpose though, don't they?” He chuckled. John hated the sound. “Oh, and don't worry about Sherlock's so very pompous brother. He's busy right now, making plans. All very exciting. But, he won't be interrupting us while we have our little talk. Sherlock though, he might...”

“Leave him alone!” 

Moriarty laughed again. It sounded so cold, so cruel. John couldn't help but shiver.

“Aw! You really do care about him don't you? It's just so cute!” He was taunting John, that tiny smidgen of Irish creeping back into his words. “I wonder though, how much does he care about you in return? What would he do to keep you safe? How far would he go? I think it would be so much fun finding out. Want to play, John?”

“Everything is a game to you, isn't it?”

“And you're finally learning! Good boy! Sherlock and I, we belong together. We are equals, the two of us, and we don't need any outsiders. We don't need you.”

“I won't let you touch him again, you sick bastard.”

“Careful, John!” 

John trembled. The sound of that sing-song voice. How he wanted to smash the phone into tiny little pieces. Preferably on Jim Moriarty's sure to be smirking face. But he knew he had to try to keep his cool. One bullet, and it would be over. One shot, and Sherlock would be alone in the world. John would not let that happen.

“You want to shoot me, Moriarty?” He asked, calmly, calling Jim's bluff. “Go ahead. Kill me! I won't let you destroy Sherlock, do you hear me? You won't win!”

“You're still willing to die for him then, even after what you saw. Interesting.”

“You're manipulating him. Taking advantage after what he went through. That’s not his fault, it's yours. You're a rapist.”

High, shrill laughter greeted those words. “Rape? You call that rape? I think you'll find, if you care to recollect, I had very little control during mine and Sherlock's last encounter...”

“You had complete control,” John interrupted, swallowing hard, not wanting to see those images yet again. “And you know it.”

Moriarty tittered. “And that's the main point here, doctor. Sherlock is mine.”

“No,” John retorted, at once; “He isn't.”

Another cold chuckle. “And what do you think you can do about this, John? You're nothing. You do realise that? You are simply not important.”

“I am to Sherlock. And you can't stand that, can you?”

 _“Maybe I should make you disappear then!”_ He sounded so vicious, and also so childish. John knew he had to be careful. 

“If anything happens to me, Sherlock will kill you.”

“Yes.” A giggle. “Well, he'd try, anyway.” Jim all but purred the words. John was having trouble keeping up with Jim and his constant mood swings. But he understood why Jim's temper had suddenly subsided again. If Sherlock tried to kill Jim, then Sherlock would be lost. Was that what Moriarty wanted? Was that the plan? 

“I won't let you destroy him,” John hissed. “I swear to you, I'll stop you. Whatever sick hold you have over him, I will find a way to break it. Do you hear me? Even if I have to break you...”

There was silence on the other end. 

John waited.

“Did you hear me?”

Finally, Jim spoke again. And when he did, he sounded amused.

“You will do a far better job of destroying Sherlock than I ever could, John. Once you've managed to rip that poor old heart of Sherlock's to bits, well, I'll be there to pick up the pieces.”

It took all of John's self control not to throw the phone into the wall, and stamp on it for good measure. To hear those mocking words, to have to listen to his taunting tone, it was almost to much for John to cope with. But he knew John would take great pleasure in ending his life, it would be a perfect ending for Moriarty. John was not about to let Moriarty beat him.

Not when they were fighting for Sherlock.

“You listen to me, you fucking piece of shit. I won't let you touch him again, ever. And if you come near him again, it will be the last thing you ever do. I will find you, one way or another, and I will make you so sorry. Do you hear me?”

He was stunned by his own anger, and by the fact that he meant every word. This was no place for “nice” and “good natured” any longer. Where had it got him? With the likes of Moriarty, precisely nowhere. If Moriarty believed John was nothing more than a victim and a target, there to be used as leverage against Sherlock when it suited him, well, he would be sorely disappointed.

“Are you still there?” John snapped. “Where the fuck have you gone?”

“Who are you talking to?”

John nearly dropped the phone. Turning round sharply, he was completed astonished to see Sherlock standing in the doorway. Well, he wasn't astonished to see his friend, he had known he was on his way back to Baker Street. What John was having problems believing was that Sherlock was holding three very full Tescos shopping bags.

“You've been shopping.”

“Well spotted.”

John rolled his eyes, despite himself. He'd expected Sherlock to sulk, or shout at him again. He certainly hadn't expected this. “What's up with you?”

“Up with me?”

“You never do the shopping!”

“True. And you've moaned at me enough times about that fact. Thought I'd surprise you.”

John was incredulous. “Congratulations.” 

“I found it quite therapeutic, actually.” Sherlock stepped further into the room, dropping the bags on the floor with a loud sigh. “So much to see, so much to buy, and all on Mycroft's credit.” He threw a Visa card on to the table, and gave John a small smile. “Very kind of Mycroft to feed us, wouldn't you agree, John?”

“How did you...” He let out a loud sigh. “Never mind. It's probably very illegal, so I really don't want to know.”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “Probably good thinking.”

“Thank you.”

They looked at each other then, an uncomfortable silence hanging between them. Neither knew what to say about what had happened between them that night, or rather, what had nearly happened. And then there had been the ugly fight, and the fact that Sherlock had stormed out.

The realisation hit John like a freight train: 

_I betrayed him because of that. I did it because I thought I'd lost him._

And now, Sherlock was back. And, quite typically, acting like nothing had happened.

John shook his head. 

_What have I done._

“I didn't think you'd be back...” John began, but Sherlock cut across him.

“Not now.” He held up his hand to emphasise his point.

John bristled. _Not now?_ What did that mean? He had no idea where he stood with Sherlock any longer, and that was not a nice feeling.

“Sherlock, we have to talk about this,” John tried again.

Sherlock gestured theatrically.

“Do you realise you're keeping them waiting?” He snapped.

John was taken aback.

_Oh God. He knows. He knows about Mycroft._

“What?” John muttered, panic rising.

“Whoever the poor fool is on the other end of that phone, John.”

John started. Shit. He had completely forgotten that he still had his phone attached to his ear, and he could have sworn he could still just about hear a very quiet chuckling. He stole a quick, nervous look towards the window. He knew Moriarty was still there, still listening, enjoying himself. Biding his time.

And Mycroft too, of course. Watching. Waiting.

Not to mention that Moriarty's threat was still very real. If he made to move out of range of the sniper, or cancelled the call, John had no doubt that he would be shot dead on the spot. With a quick glance down at his chest, he saw the red light had disappeared. Not that that let him of the hook though. Only Moriarty could do that, and John surmised the bastard would enjoy making the doctor sweat a little bit longer. 

Sherlock was watching John intently, his eyes sweeping his face, and then fixating on the phone, clasped tightly in his friend's right hand. 

“Who were you shouting at?”

John frowned. “Nobody.”

Sherlock's face was expressionless. John knew full well, however, that Sherlock was only to aware that he was lying to him, and his friend's keen mind was already trying to figure out the truth.

“You were arguing with someone as I walked in, and you seem reluctant to end the call. Why would that be, John?

John felt a flash of anger. “It was Harry, alright?”

Sherlock blinked. “Harry. You're sister, Harry?”

“Who else?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You never call Harry.”

John was flustered. And angry. Sherlock had stormed out, making John feel so small and useless, and now he had crashed back in, demanding answers from his friend as if nothing had happened.

Mood swings, changing mindsets in seconds, acting like nothing had happened. 

Sherlock and Moriarty really were _too_ alike.

John shuddered. Sherlock saw.

Quick as a flash, Sherlock marched across the room, moving to stand beside John. He then plucked the mobile out of John's grip before John could even react, and had pressed the handset to his own ear.

“Who is this?”

John held his breath.

Sherlock glared suspiciously at John. “Lines dead. “Harry must have hung up. Why would she do that?” John had no reply. He cast his eyes on to the ground. Sherlock finished the call, and then threw the phone back to John. His friend caught it with one hand, looking at the phone as if it would burn him. Sherlock took notice of this, his large eyes boring into John's.

“You are acting very strangely, John.”

John laughed coldly. “I guess so. And you left me, and then went shopping, Sherlock. It's been a weird kind of night, hasn't it?”

Sherlock turned and walked back towards the door. John wanted to go to him. He didn't understand Sherlock's change of attitude from earlier, but he welcomed it. First, though, he needed to move. Actually holding his breath, John stepped away from the window, still expected a shot to ring out. He found himself cringing as he edged his way slowly. He couldn't hide his fear, and now Sherlock was staring at the window too. It dawned on John that Sherlock could easily be hit now as well. 

“Sherlock, come away from the window.”

Sherlock, still wearing his long coat, stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at John intently. “Why?”

John clenched his fists. “Can't you just do as I ask, Sherlock. Please?”

John was desperate. He had to get him out of there. Away from Moriarty.

And there was still Mycroft.

_What a mess._

Sherlock was frowning impatiently. “What do you think is going happen? Is Harry going to throw stones at the glass, and startle me?”

John hated Sherlock's taunting tone.

“It wasn't Harry, okay?”

“I'm shocked.” Sherlock dead panned. “Who was it, John? And don't lie to me again, or I will walk out of that front door again and, this time, I won't be back. If I truly can't trust you, then it's over. You'll never see me again.” His eyes narrowed. “It's obvious. You were furious, and yet you couldn't stop the conversation or even move, which I'm assuming was due to some threat of violence.” He lowered his voice. “I think I can deduce for myself who was on that phone John, unless I've really lost my touch since my rape.”

John cringed. That hit home, hard.

“If you know, Sherlock, then why ask me?”

“I want to hear you say the name.”

John hesitated for a moment.

“Moriarty, okay? Happy now?”

Sherlock glowered. “Yes, I'm happy. Moriarty has played his hand tonight.” He turned to look toward the window once more, and John could see that his eyes were blazing. “He came after you again. I told him to leave you out of it, but he chose to ignore me.” He leaned forward, placing one hand against the glass. “And that changes everything.”

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

John, panicking, stepped forward, and gripped Sherlock firmly by his arms. He was actually petrified that the man would go charging off at that very second to find Moriarty, and deal with him accordingly.

And the thought terrified John.

_That is exactly what Jim wants. That's why he's brought me into this. He wants Sherlock to go after him, hurt him, give in completely to the darkness._

_No. Sorry Jim. Not today._

“What are you going to do?” John enquired.

Sherlock gazed at John for a moment, John twitching uncomfortably under the other man's stare. John hated this. It was as if his friend could look right into him, see past all of his defences, and know everything about him. It made John so nervous, and he knew Sherlock would realise very quickly that John was hiding something. And if there was one thing Sherlock detested, apart from Mycroft, it was being kept in the dark.

“I won't let him hurt you,” Sherlock suddenly announced. “I'll stop him. He'll be sorry that he threatened you, I promise.”

John blinked.

_He thinks I'm scared of Moriarty._

_He's not wrong. But not for the reasons he thinks._

“I know,” John replied, releasing his hold on Sherlock, and stepping back. “It's you he wants to hurt anyway, not me. And you're definitely letting him do that.”

Sherlock's mouth twitched, as if he wanted to retort, but decided against it. Turning away, he walked back to the shopping, leaned over and picked the bags up. Face set, and still not looking at John, he carried them to the kitchen, and dropped them unceremoniously onto the table.

John was very aware that Sherlock was blocking him out. He wasn't surprised. Sherlock didn't like admitting weaknesses and this unholy alliance with Moriarty, whatever it was, was undoubtably a worrying chink in Sherlock's armour. But John also knew that he had to make Sherlock open up to him about Moriarty, and why he chose to go to him. Why the hell was he allowing Moriarty to have so much power over him? If Sherlock spoke about it, admitted that he had a problem, then maybe Mycroft would back off. Then disaster could still be averted.

John only had one chance now. He had to prove to Mycroft that he was what Sherlock needed.

_I don't even know if Mycroft will listen to me. I called him in, I showed my own weakness, as Mycroft expected me to do from the start. What if he won't let me change my mind?_

He frowned. Mycroft had Sherlock's best intentions at heart. He had to, he was his brother. He'd do what was right, and anything right with Sherlock happened to involve John. And Mycroft knew that only too well.

Sherlock was noisily moving around the kitchen, banging cupboard doors and slamming drawers shut. John discovered, as he moved to the kitchen doorway, that Sherlock was packing away his shopping, into all the wrong places. John watched, with some amusement, as Sherlock put miniture tins of baked beans in the bread bin, grapes and cheese in the plate cupboard and fairy liquid in the fridge. John couldn't help but feel a rush of affection. He'd have to sort everything out once Sherlock was done, but the fact that Sherlock was making the effort, it meant a lot to John.

It gave him hope.

John rolled his eyes as Sherlock tried to pile too many kitchen rolls in a cupboard already filled to the brim.

“Need a hand?” John asked.

Sherlock shot him a withering look. “Now you offer, John? Very considerate of you.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I'm fine.”

“Course you are.” John leaned against the wall, his arms crossed. “By the way, Sherlock, you should probably know the Fairy liquid doesn't usually live in the fridge.”

Sherlock blinked twice. “Does it matter?” He demanded.

John shrugged. “Guess not.” He silently made up his mind to put the kitchen right long before Mrs Hudson did her usual shop and saw the mess Sherlock had made. John knew that Sherlock had really made an effort and he didn't want him embarrassed.

John's stomach churned. What if Sherlock wasn't there when Mrs Hudson gets back from her break? What if Mycroft did as he promised and took the “problem” away from John and there was nothing John could do to stop him? What was he supposed to tell Mrs Hudson? Or Lestrade? Or Molly?

Why hadn't he thought things through before calling Mycroft?

_What have I done_

“John?”

John looked up quickly, to find that Sherlock was once again regarding him closely.

“Sorry, I was miles away.” John could have kicked himself. He had to get a grip. Sherlock was obviously concerned by John's abnormal behaviour and it would only be a matter of time before he worked out why if John didn't pull himself together. “Did you say something?”

Sherlock frowned. “You shouldn't let him worry you this much,” Sherlock replied quietly. “You do know I'd never let him get to you again, don't you?”

“He'll do what he wants,” John stated simply. “Moriarty always does.”

Sherlock shook his head firmly. “Not this time. Not now he brought you into the game.”

John grimaced. “ _Game_ , Sherlock? Is that what you've been doing with him? Playing?”

“That's all we ever do.”

“And you think that's okay? You think that's what sex is really about, do you?”

Sherlock paused, a slight frown crossing his face. He walked past John, moving back into the centre of the lounge. “I don't know any other way, John.”

John swallowed. He wanted to shout at Sherlock, grab him and shake him, and make him understand the truth.

_I wanted to show you another way. I wanted to go there with you. But we both fucked it up._

Out loud, John said, “Let's get out of here.”

Sherlock was thrown. “What?”

“I think you and I should go get a drink.”

Sherlock smiled, as if he assumed John was joking. It dawned on Sherlock quickly that John was completely serious.

“It's three am.” He jerked his head toward the clock. “It's a bit late for a drink, John.”

John continued on, undeterred.

“There's a 24 hour bar in Marylebone High Street, I used to go there sometimes with Sarah.” His eyes were pleading. “Please, Sherlock. It's just a drink.”

“What for?”

“Don't you think we have things we need to talk about?”

“Can't we talk here?”

John shook his head. “New place, so new prospective?” He closed his eyes wearily. “Please, Sherlock. Let's just go out. Isn't it worth a try? Just do this for me?”

Sherlock hesitated.

John waited.

_I have to get him out. It'll show Mycroft that I'm making progress with him. If I don't, then Mycroft will come for him, and I'll not be able to stop him. This way, he can see that I, and Sherlock, are trying._

_Plus, it will buy us some time. Time for me to think of something._

“Is it because of Moriarty?” Sherlock whispered. “Because I swear to you that we're perfectly safe here. If he shows his face, I'll kill him.”

John completely believed him. He wiped at the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. “Safe isn't the word I'd use, Sherlock. Not with snipers ready to take pot shots at me through the window.”

Sherlock was thinking it over, looking towards the doorway leading to the staircase reluctantly.

Finally, John's desperation won him over.

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “If you want to. One drink though, and that’s it. Places like the one you have in mind irritate me, crowded by stupid, ignorant, trivial people. And playing soulless, faceless manufactured music so loud to drown out any possibility of some actual intelligent conversation.” He slipped on his gloves, his annoyance growing with every word. “Shall we go then, get it over with?”

John scoffed. “It's good to know you care, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gave him a frosty stare, and then moved to the stairway. “When you're ready, John.” He snapped, impatiently, and then headed down the steps.

Left alone for a moment, John took the opportunity to steal a quick glance at his phone. And, after one second, a text arrived. He flinched at the loud sound altering him to the fact, and looked up sharply, wondering if Sherlock had heard. When his friend did not reappear, and realising how crazy his guilt was now making him act, John momentarily relaxed.

_How could Sherlock have heard? He doesn't have bat ears. Even if he had, why would Sherlock immediately assume the text was from Mycroft? I need to stop panicking and keep it together._

With a sigh, John read the message:

_“Well done, John. Well played. We will talk about unwanted phone calls to you later. For now, enjoy your drink, and don't worry. You've done the right thing. I will be in touch again shortly.”_

John brought a shaky hand up to his mouth as he re-read the message twice.

“I can't do this,” he whispered, not caring whether Mycroft could hear him or not. He was fully aware that the flat was very likely to be bugged, and his words were being overheard at that very moment, but he wasn't put off. “I made a mistake, Mycroft. I won't let you take Sherlock. I can get through to him. Please.”

He watched his phone, waiting. There was no response.

“John?” Sherlock said loudly, sounding very agitated. “Do you want to go out, or not?”

“Coming,” John called back, slipping his phone back in his pocket, and then walking quickly out of the flat and down the stairs to where Sherlock was waiting at the front door, not smiling.

“What were you doing?” He demanded.

“Nothing.” John replied. “Let's go.”

With a frown, Sherlock pulled open the door, and marched out. John followed him quickly, a feeling of dread building deep within the doctor's gut with every new step he took.

XXX

They walked at a brisk pace, John having to rush to keep up with Sherlock's longer strides. They didn't speak, as Sherlock kept his head down as he went along. John was aware that Sherlock knew the way, and every single way at that, to all the bars that were in the city, and possibly even further afield. So, John stayed quiet. Better to let Sherlock lead them to the bar, especially as that would spare them a possible argument. John was still hoping that Sherlock would talk; actually continue to open up and make progress, just as he had started to back at the house.

John was nervous as they walked, taking notice of every person who went by. He didn't trust a soul, knowing that anyone could be watching them, working for Mycroft or Moriarty. He knew Sherlock was tense too. Although his friend kept his head down, he was never anything but fully alert. Thankfully, no one seemed bothered, or at all interested, by them as they passed. Not that John was able to relax though. He still expected both men would make some move tonight. It was up to John to make sure that nothing untoward happened. Especially as, if it did, it would be all his own fault.

He was desperate to keep his betrayal from Sherlock. His friend would not understand, or appreciate, his reasons for handing him over to Mycroft. He wasn't even certain Sherlock would be interested in John's change of heart. John's loyalty mattered more to Sherlock than anything, John was only too aware of that, and John had let him down, badly. He would do whatever it took to prevent Sherlock from finding out.

_Whatever it took._

“We're here.” Sherlock suddenly announced.

John looked up. Sure enough, they were stood outside the bar. Looking through the windows, John could see it was pretty quiet. John wasn't surprised. It was getting to half past three in the morning! And it wasn't the most popular bar in the City, not by any means. But, it would suffice.

Sherlock pulled open the door, a grimace of annoyance on his face when the unmistakable sound of Girls Aloud floated out to them. Sherlock gave John an accusing glare, which John ignored. Then, together, they walked in, both of them pleased to be out of the cold. Well, John was pleased anyway. Sherlock looked as if he was about to be physically tortured.

“It's just a bar!” John told him, growing impatient with Sherlock's derogatory attitude.

“It's a cheesy dive,” Sherlock responded. “Look at the other people in here. They all look equally bored with their lot in life.” He pointed a woman sat at a table not far from them. “Look at her, falling asleep over her glass of vodka.”

John coughed uncomfortably as the poor woman stirred. Sherlock was not bothering to lower his voice and the woman, and the rest of the place, could hear his every word.

Sherlock was unconcerned by this.

“She comes in here every night. It's obvious. Orders the same drink, sits at the same table, wasting her life. Nothing to live for, no one to keep her company. Is that normal, John? Is that the right way to live? Well, you can keep it. I'd rather be me.”

John swore under his breath, and with a snarl of, “Shut up,” he grabbed Sherlock's arm, and pulled him across the bar, over to a table in the corner of the room, well away from the few other customers populating the bar. This also guaranteed them some privacy, and hopefully the ability for Sherlock to leave the establishment in one piece, should he upset the wrong person with his callousness.

“What are you drinking?” John asked, quietly.

Sherlock was staring out of the window. “I'm not,” he replied, distractedly.

“You don't want a drink?” John tried again.

Sherlock eyed him. “I never said I did. This was your idea, remember?”

John jerked his head. “Fine,” he offered, and then made his way over to the bar to order himself a diet coke. He was given an unimpressed look from the bar tender for his trouble. John couldn't blame him. They had come in, disturbed the peace, and insulted some of his customers and then hardly spent a thing once they had settled.

Not exactly the best course of action.

John was handed his drink, and he made his way back to Sherlock, who was still staring, expressionless, out at the quiet street.

“Alright?” John enquired, taking his place in the seat opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced at him. “Fine.” He noted John's diet coke. “Is that all you wanted?”

John shrugged.

Sherlock shook his head. “We came a long way for you to have a soft drink, John.”

“Well,” John responded, eyeing Sherlock. “Maybe I didn't want to come here for the drink?”

Now he had Sherlock's full attention. “Why then?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Sherlock let out a deep sigh. “We _are_ talking.”

“No, Sherlock. I mean, _really_ talk. About everything. About what happened, what this thing is that you have going on with Moriarty,” he paused, lowering his voice to just about a whisper. “And you and me...”

Sherlock looked back, unblinking.

“And you thought a noisy bar would be the most suitable place for that conversation?”

“It's hardly noisy.” John responded, looking around. “I just thought, you know, a change of scenery...”

“And Moriarty was a factor, obviously.”

John pursed his lips together. “Well, he was watching us. He could have shot either one of us, if he wanted too.”

Sherlock smiled humourlessly. “That's not the plan. He knows the game, he made up the rules.”

“Our lives aren't a game.”

Sherlock didn't reply to that. His gaze intensified for a moment, and then he returned to staring out of the window.

John watched him.

“Do you think this is all you're good for? Playing Moriarty's sick game?”

Sherlock continued to ignore him, his face steady, as he stayed glued to the window.

“Sherlock?” John probed.

“What, John?” He sounded weary now. Defeated.

“Why are you sleeping with him?”

Sherlock's neck snapped round instantly.

“Do you want to speak any louder?” He hissed, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

No one took a blind bit of notice of him or John.

“They can't hear us, Sherlock. They aren't interested.” He leaned closer. “Tell me how it started.”

“It's not important.”

“Yes, it is. I want to know, Sherlock. I want to understand. Help me to.”

Sherlock hesitated. Inwardly, he was cringing. He could remember how it had felt, the first time. The shame, and the pain. He was lying on his back, in that filthy warehouse, able to see Moriarty closely as he leered over him, his eyes sparkling with excitement. The way it had began, it had taken him by complete surprise. Not Jim though, he had planned it from the word go. And, like an idiot, Sherlock had fallen so easily into his trap.

_Jim hoisted him up, holding him so close, so tight. His grip was cruel and bruising. He forced Sherlock against a wall, pinning him there and Sherlock was trapped. He was helpless, having been dazed by a vicious blow to his head. No concussion though, not this time. This time, Sherlock had quickly become aware of what was happening, and what he himself had wanted. And when Moriarty pressed his lips against Sherlock's, holding him round the middle and pushing his groin against his adversary's, Sherlock only hesitated for a second before he responded. He drove forward, kissing Jim back just as hungrily and brutally, taking pleasure in the pain he was causing. With a snarl, he grabbed at Jim and forced him to his knees, seeing the man who was so entirely his equal completely at his mercy. He felt so strong, so powerful. For the first time since that fateful night on the Embankment, Sherlock no longer felt like Anderson's victim. And, as he begun to unbuckle his belt, Moriarty watching his every move with wide, lust filled eyes, Sherlock felt incredible..._

“It was what I needed,” Sherlock said quietly, maybe more to himself than to John. “It gave me back control.”

John closed his eyes. “Is that what you really think? You honestly feel that you have control of this situation? He's using you, Sherlock!”

Sherlock covered his face with his hands. Then, when he placed his hands on the table, refusing to look up, John could see he was ever so slightly trembling. John understood. This was not easy for him, showing this much weakness. With only a moments hesitation, John reached out, and covered Sherlock's shaky hands with his own.

“It's okay, Sherlock. I'm here.”

Sherlock stared down at the hand now touching his own, and then finally up into John's, caring, patient eyes.

“I was scared, John. I thought Anderson had ruined me. I'd even frightened you off. Moriarty was just there. He knew what to say, what to do. He made me _feel,_ John. That was enough. Sex with him felt powerful, it felt good. It was what I needed.”

Guilt seized John once more.

_I should have been there for him, not panicking about my own feelings and what they meant. I knew he needed me. How can I blame Moriarty? This is my fault._

_I've let him down, failed him._

_And I wanted to give up on him, just hand him over to Mycroft, like he was nothing. He's Sherlock Holmes! My best friend... my... How could I treat him like that? What have I done?_

“I'm so sorry,” John whispered. “You didn't frighten me off. I behaved like a moron, and I let you down, Sherlock. Badly.”

“I asked for too much.”

John shook his head roughly. “No, you didn't. You expected me to be there, to help you through it, to be a _friend_. You didn't need me to disappear on you when you needed me the most.”

“I don't blame you, John. I got myself into this situation; I'm addicted to how Moriarty makes me feel and I was too proud to admit it to myself. This was all my own doing, my own arrogance and stupidity.” He took hold of John's face, making him look at him. _“It's not your fault.”_

John was actually embarrassed to find a tear threatening to spill down his cheek, and he wrenched his chin free from Sherlock's grasp, trying to hide his embarrasment from the other man.

“John,” Sherlock said, softly. “It's alright.”

“I'm not going away again.” John declared, and he meant it. “I'm here to stay.”

Sherlock actually smiled. “Glad to hear it.”

“Will you let me help you? With Moriarty?”

Sherlock frowned. “I can handle it, John.”

John knew he had to be patient this time. He kept his face, and his emotions, neutral.

“You thought that when this all started, but it turned into an addiction. You just said so. You are strong, Sherlock, but sometimes you need some help. That's why I'm here.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

John waited.

_Please, Sherlock. Please trust me._

After a long moment, Sherlock opened his eyes again and gazed intently at John.

John held his breath.

“John,” Sherlock said, gently. “I would like you to help me, please.”

John could have kissed him in gratitude.

_It will be okay, now. Mycroft has to leave us alone. Sherlock has admitted he has a problem to me. It will be fine._

He smiled warmly.

“Thanks,” John told Sherlock, his voice slightly breaking.

Sherlock nodded. John searched his face. His emotion wasn't as clear as John was certain it was on his own, but Sherlock's eyes gave him away. They were shining.

And the reason for that was because John was right. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Sherlock had shared his burden.

John, feeling brave, knew that this was the perfect opportunity for him to tell Sherlock truly how he felt. He steadied himself, cleared his throat, and looked Sherlock right in the eye.

“Sherlock, there's something else I wanted to say...”

He suddenly realised that Sherlock was not focusing on him at all. Instead, he was staring past John, out of the window behind him.

“Sherlock?” John asked again. “What's wrong?”

Sherlock didn't reply at once, he continued to stare. His eyes met John's for a second, and then he looked around the room, his gaze fixing on each person in turn.

“Sherlock?” John hissed, urgently.

“Wait here for a moment, John.” Sherlock spoke so quietly, John had to strain to hear him. “Be ready to leave when I say.”

“Sherlock, what is going on?”

“I should have seen right away. I would have if I hadn't been distracted. The same Audi A8, registration number GU06 JYH has driven along that road five times now. Every time, it slows down as it goes by this bar. And the young couple, sitting on the table alongside the sad drunk lady? They have periodically looked over at us since we arrived in here. Basically John, we're being watched. And I think we can both guess who these people work for.”

John's insides were twisting into knots.

_He thinks it's Moriarty._

_Of course, it may well be. I don't know!_

_Oh, God!_

“Okay,” he said, finally. “I'm ready.”

Sherlock, calmly and nonchalantly, walked past the other occupiers of the bar. He walked, through the door, back out into the cold night.

John knew he had seconds. He grabbed at his phone, and pressed the button immediately, calling Mycroft.

He answered on the second ring.

“Yes, John?”

“Mycroft!” John said, his panic clear in his tone. “Please, just listen to me. I've changed my mind, I don't need your help any more.”

Mycroft, after a pause, said quite kindly, “Don't worry, John. Sherlock thinks Moriarty is following him, I understand.”

John blinked. “You know about-”

“Please John, I know everything. You are doing very well, just walk home with Sherlock. All will be fine.”

“Did you hear me?” John tried again nervous, speaking as quickly as he could, his eyes looked on the exit. “Sherlock has admitted to me he has a problem. I'm doing what you wanted me too, I'm helping him. I shouldn't have called you, it was wrong. Sherlock trusts me, responds to me. Please, don't do anything. Just wait to hear from me, I will give you constant updates. Please?”

There was a uncomfortable silence. John waited, breathing heavily.

_Please God._

“Alright, doctor.” Mycroft finally replied. “No problem. Just see that Sherlock gets home safely, and I'll be in contact shortly.”

He hung up the call.

John slipped his phone hurriedly back into his pocket.

Without a second to spare, Sherlock walked back inside the bar, and beckoned for John to join him.

John got up and crossed the room. He didn't make eye contact with any of the other guests in the room. Though he was aware that even the bartender was staring at them now. Of course, that could simply be to do with their odd behavio0ur rather than anything sinister. He hoped so anyway.

Sherlock held the door open for him, and John slipped through. Then, together, they hurried along, rushing down Marylebone Street, heading back to Baker Street, home and safety.

Just like the journey there, they didn't speak. But this time, more due to concentration and adrenaline then a wish not to speak to each other.

On the contrary, both men felt closer to the other than they had done for some time.

“This way,” Sherlock urged, gesturing towards a dark alley. “Short cut. This leads right back to Baker Street.”

John didn't doubt him. Sherlock knew every road in London after all.

They had only made small progress up the alley, when suddenly a black Mercedes appeared behind them, blocking off the way they had come.

John blinked, trying to catch his breath, as he watched the driver's door opening and a man in a suit climbing out of the car. He was gazing intently at them.

_What? Oh my God. No._

“What the Hell...” John muttered. Sherlock grabbed his hand.

“Run!”

Together, they sped down the alley, not bothering to look over their shoulders to see if the newcomer was chasing them. They could see the glimmer of a street light, and knew that they were nearing the end of the dark alley.

John held his breath.

_Just keep going. It'll be okay._

Just as they thought they had made it, just as John allowed a flicker of hope to creep in, the Audi A8 suddenly drove up in front of them, covering the entrance to their alley, and their escape.

_It has to be Moriarty,_ John thought, desperately. _Mycroft wouldn't do this, not after I called him. He'd listen to me, he wouldn't do this to me, or to Sherlock..._

He shot a look at Sherlock, who was managing to keep his panic in check. Or so it appeared. As he whipped round, looking in front and behind him, John could see he was as alarmed as John himself was.

_Maybe more so. This cannot be Mycroft. He wouldn't scare his brother like this. He knows what he's been through._

_I'll kill Moriarty if he hurts him._

The suited man who had emerged from the Mercedes was still approaching them, a hand in his pocket. John wasn't stupid enough to wonder why.

When John looked back towards the car, he couldn't believe his eyes. He felt as if his whole world had been pulled out from under him, leaving him to come crashing down.

Mycroft Holmes was staring at John and Sherlock, a calm smile on his lips.

“Good Evening, Sherlock,” His gaze passed from his brother's, and rested on John. “Doctor Watson.” He actually greeted them pleasantly. It made John's skin crawl.

Sherlock actually took a step in front of John, edging the man towards the wall behind them, as if he wanted to protect John. Which, obviously, he did.

John's heart hurt. He felt sick.

_What have I done?_

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock demanded. “What are you doing here. Isn't it passed your bedtime?”

Mycroft continued to smile. John couldn't bear to look at him. He only had to look at Sherlock's body language to see that his friend was just as spooked.

“Answer me!” Sherlock snapped. John was proud that his voice was steady. “What is this all about?”

Mycroft sighed. “I'm sorry, Sherlock.” He stepped nearer. Sherlock actually recoiled slightly. John wanted to move around his friend, to stand in front of him instead, to protect him, but John was truly trapped by Sherlock's body. He couldn't move a muscle. Sherlock seemed to be fighting the urge to spring at Mycroft. John put a hand on his shoulder. He hoped it was calming.

“You're sorry?” Sherlock spat. “What for?”

Mycroft glanced at John. “You played your part very well, Doctor Watson. Thank you.”

John shook his head wordlessly.

_This wasn't happening._

Sherlock whirled round, fixing John with a stunned look. “What does he mean? What is this?”

John couldn't say a word. His heart was breaking. But what was he supposed to do?

“You have to come with me, Sherlock. For your own good.”

Sherlock actually laughed.

“I don't think so.”

Mycroft frowned. “Don't make a scene, Sherlock. It's quite beneath you. Get in the car, please.”

“No.” Sherlock, desperately trying to stay calm, “I'm not going anywhere with you.”

“You don't have a choice.”

“Why?”

“Because John called me and asked for my help.”

Sherlock chuckled coldly. “That would never happen. John wouldn't-”

John let out a low moan, his face buried in his hands.

Sherlock heard him.

He froze.

And slowly turned round, fixing John with a look of disbelief.

“John?” He whispered. “What have you done?” 

John didn't answer him. He couldn't.

Then, Sherlock shouted at him, causing John to jump. _“Look at me!”_

John's tearful eyes met Sherlock's wide gaze. “I'm sorry,” he whimpered.

Sherlock was staring at him, evidently not believing what was happening.

John had never felt so ashamed with himself.

Mycroft had taken hold of his brother's shoulder, and was attempting to pull him forward, away from John. “Come on, Sherlock.”

Sherlock snarled, throwing Mycroft off of him. “Get away from me! I don't know what this is about and I don't care! I'm not going anywhere with you. Do you understand?”

Mycroft glared at him. “What is there to stay for now?” He asked, his tone unkind, spiteful. “You have nothing to keep you here, do you? Unless you are looking forward to your next encounter with a certain Moriarty?”

Sherlock gasped.

John wanted to hit Mycroft. How could he?

“You told him?” Sherlock hissed to John.

“What?” John blurted out. “No, of course not!” He rounded on the elder Holmes, his tone pleading. “I called you! I said I'd changed my mind, told you to leave us alone. I was getting through to him! You have to stop this, Mycroft!”

Mycroft ignored him. All his attention was on his brother.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft repeated. “ _Get in the car._ ” His tone was low now, cold and dangerous. “I will not ask again.”

Sherlock had heard enough. He spun round, grabbing for his brother, and, in that moment, wanting to cause the man some serious harm. He didn't have a chance. He was instantly grabbed by three men who appeared out of nowhere, pulling Sherlock away from his brother, and pinning him to the cold ground.

John tried to get to Sherlock, screaming at the top of his voice.

“LET HIM GO! DON'T HURT HIM! MYCROFT, STOP THEM!”

“ _Enough!_ ” Mycroft commanded. The men eased their grips, but still kept Sherlock pinned. Mycroft gestured towards the Mercedes parked a little way away, and another figure rushed towards them. John realised quickly that it was Andrea. He watched, horrified and struggling uselessly with one of Mycroft's heavies to reach Sherlock, as she handed Mycroft a syringe, and he, showing no emotion, knelt down beside Sherlock, clasped his shoulder, and then stuck the needle into his arm.

Sherlock stared up at his brother, terror evident in his eyes. Mycroft regarded him back, his face expressionless.

“John...” Sherlock moaned, already feeling the effects of the drug in his system, “Help me.”

John let out a low sob. “Sherlock, I'm sorry!”

_Someone stop this. Please._

John grabbed for Mycroft. “Don't do this! God, Mycroft, don't take him!”

Mycroft eyed John. “I'm sorry,” he said, quietly. Sherlock was sedated, he could hardly move. He attempted no further resistance as Mycroft's men pulled him up, and began to pull him towards the Audi.

Mycroft stood beside John, one hand warningly on John's arm. That was all it took to prevent John from rushing after Sherlock. John watched, helplessly, as Sherlock was helped into the car, and the door slammed shut on him.

John shook his head, still not believing this was truly happening.

“How could you do this?” John whispered. “You bastard.”

“It's necessary,” was the only reply. Mycroft began to walk away, his umbrella swinging at his side.

“Where are you taking him?”

“Someone where he can get the help he needs.”

John knew Mycroft wouldn't tell him. Not now, anyway.

“Don't let them hurt him, Mycroft.” John warned.

Mycroft paused, turned around, and fixed John with a knowing look.

“Of course not, John. What do you take me for?”

John clenched his fists. “You don't want me to answer that.”

Mycroft's look was unwavering.

“You have to trust me, John. If you can.” He pointed at the Mercedes waiting behind the devastated Doctor. “Do you want a ride home?”

“I don't want anything from you!” John shot back.

Mycroft shrugged. “Fair enough.” He gestured to the driver and the Mercedes began to pull away. “This is all for the best, John. You'll see.”

“Look after him, Mycroft.” John repeated. “I will find him, and if anyone hurts him, I'll be blaming you.”

“Fair enough.” With a smile, Mycroft turned on his heel and walked back to the Audi. With one last nod to John, he got in and the car drove away, taking Sherlock away.

John could only stand there, and stare after them. He was in shock.

_This is a nightmare. I'm going to wake up._

_Please, wake up._

He didn't know what to do, where to go. Sherlock was gone. And John had no idea where, or even how to start looking for him. His first port of call had always been Mycroft when Sherlock was in trouble. Now what should he do?

His mobile phone buzzed.

John fished in his pocket, praying that the text was from Mycroft. Just something reassuring was all John needed at that moment.

He read the text, and closed his eyes.

There was no name, but it was obvious who it was from.

And why it was sent.

_“Told you so! Great job!”_

John threw his phone against the brick wall, and it smashed into pieces.

“Fuck you, Moriarty!” He yelled. "You bastard. Come out here and fucking deal with me!"

There was no response.

John swallowed back down his anger. What help would him shouting pointlessly into the night do? He edged his way out of the alley, staring dejectedly up the road, in the direction the Mercedes had taken.

What should he do?

Who could help him?

He wouldn't break down there in that alley. He'd be strong, for Sherlock. He had no one to blame but himself, after all.

And, he knew, without a doubt, that he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock opened his eyes and for split second, he wondered if it had all been a dream.

Or a nightmare.

He stared up at the plain, white ceiling above him. For a moment, his mind played tricks on him and he wondered where he was. But then, he realised, and he sighed dejectedly. The memories all came flooding back to him, and he remembered how sorry a situation it was that he had found himself trapped in.

He was in exactly the same place he had been stuck in for the past thirteen days. The building that he had come to know as his prison.

Feeling achy, he tried to move his wrists, only to frown when his arms would not obey him. Of course not. It slowly came back to him that he was strapped down, and had been for the past few days. His punishment for the fourth escape attempt he attempted to get away from this Hell Hole.

Or, as Mycroft would prefer to call it, a Government facility. 

_Basically, the same thing,_ Sherlock reasoned. 

It had been thirteen long days since Mycroft had brought him to this Godforsaken place. That meant he had been kept in this tiny room like a prisoner for thirteen long days. Nothing to do but lie there, with only his own thoughts to keep him company, or when he was forced to talk to one of the obnoxious doctors who infested the place, encouraging him to open up and talk about his feelings. No, thank you. Sherlock didn't need to be told what he should or shouldn't be feeling or thinking. He knew he had problems, he had managed to finally admit this to John, and more importantly, to himself. But he wanted to deal with those problems in his own way. Being stuck in this place was, as far as Sherlock could see, very damaging to him for so many reasons. First of all, the boredom. Sherlock knew he would be driven insane if this forced solitary continued. Sherlock didn't like people, that was true enough, but he needed people, and being trapped in this grim room, all alone, with nothing to keep his vast mind occupied, it was hardly surprising he had lost his patience, and his temper, a few times. He had been locked up for thirteen days! He'd like to see Mycroft try to deal with that treatment! Of course, the thirteen days were more than just the length of time he'd been a prisoner of the government. 

It also meant that it had been thirteen long days since he had seen John.

 _John._

Eventually, his thoughts always turned back to John. But that was a good thing, he knew that for certain. Thinking about his friend was all he had left now to somehow keep himself sane. For the thousandth time, Sherlock wondered where John was, and what he was doing. Was he was trying to find Sherlock? Sherlock really hoped that he was. He knew John wouldn't give up on him easily. Mycroft was refusing to allow Sherlock to see John. He had told Sherlock that this was actually down to him and him alone, due to his appalling behaviour since he had arrived at the “hospital.” That was how Mycroft liked to describe the fortress. Sherlock couldn't help but be amused by this. Hospital was a place where the sick were healed. This place he was in, not one patient was actually sick, as far as Sherlock could tell. Not that he had been allowed any contact with any one but his doctor and two orderlies. Perhaps Mycroft considered Sherlock would be setting a bad example. Sherlock allowed himself a small smile at that thought. His brother was quite right, of course. How Sherlock would love the chance to cause some chaos for the pompous doctor and his staff. At least it would be fun. Most of his fellow “inmates” were perfectly well and sane. They were probably in there for similar reasons to Sherlock himself. Because they had annoyed someone very important on the outside, and this was the tidiest and easiest way of dealing with the problem. Make it disappear as cleanly and trouble free as possible. And with very little fuss. Far easier than trying to dispose of a body, after all.

Sherlock knew that was why he was there. Mycroft had wanted him out of the way for years, and now he had finally gotten his wish. Yes, as Sherlock had admitted to John the night he was abducted, he had a problem. He had a bad addiction where Jim Moriarty was concerned, and he needed help to get clean. But locking him up in an asylum? Keeping him restrained for hours a day? Not allowing him contact with anyone apart from his doctor, his brother and two orderlies? How was any of this supposed to fix him? 

And, of course, Sherlock was bored. If anything would drive him as crazy as Mycroft and his cronies seemed to think he was, it was boredom.

He thought back to the night he had been brought here. He had been semi conscious during the car journey, his head lolling back against the seat where he had sat between two men, who had continuously watched him as if they had expected him to attempt a miraculous escape at any moment. The drug Mycroft had given him had ensured Sherlock's compliance, he could hardly move his index finger, let alone try to escape out of a moving car. 

Sherlock had drifted in and out of sleep, any efforts he had made to try and follow the route they were taking had proved fruitless. Even in his pitiful state, Sherlock had still felt agitated by his own weakness. He knew every road in this stupid city. He should have known exactly where he had been at all times. Not one person had spoken to him during the journey. Mycroft had not bothered to pay him any attention at all. So many times, Sherlock had wanted to yell at his brother, to demand answers, wanting to understand exactly why Mycroft putting him through this. But it would have been pointless and he had known that. So he had decided it was best to stay silent.

The car had finally come to a stop, and he had then found himself being half helped, half dragged out of the vehicle, and pulled towards a large building that he had not recognised. He had been so unfocused, and had felt so sick from the drugs that were still having the required affect on him. As Mycroft had taken his arm them, leading and supporting him, he had heard his brother whispering in his ear. Even though Sherlock's head had still been groggy, and it was to be a few more hours before he could truly comprehend what others were saying to him, Mycroft's words had sunk in and he had stored them some how, saving them somewhere in his hard drive of a mind. 

And he could still hear them clearly now:

_“Listen to me, Sherlock. There is something you should know. John didn't want this to happen. Yes, he betrayed you, but he tried to stop me, tried to take it all back. Think about that, it will keep you strong.”_

Mycroft had clutched Sherlock's shoulder tightly then, and nodded to him. That small gesture had probably been the single, largest sign of affection his brother had ever shown him. And that had only succeeded in making Sherlock more nervous than ever.

And with good reason. He'd been dragged into the ominous looking building, just managing to note and record where he was being taken to, which corridor he was being pulled down, any signs or features or _anything_ that he would be able to recognise again, to find his way back to the exit _when_ he made his escape. Even in his drug induced state, he was still certain that opportunities would arise. They just had to, they always did. He would escape from there. He was Sherlock Holmes. He could escape from anywhere.

Or, that was what he had believed then any way. He had immediately been taken to the room he had come to know as his cell. The tiny room with the white walls and the window with bars on it that he couldn't see out of, even if he stood on tip-toes. A bed had been in the centre, with one small table beside it. That was clearly all the furniture they had allowed him. He had only needed one look at his new living quarters, and he had realised the truth. This wasn't a hospital. It was an asylum. And he was trapped there. The orderlies had dumped him unceremoniously on the bed, Mycroft promising him that he would visit tomorrow, and that, in the meantime, Sherlock would need to sleep off the affects of the drug. And Mycroft had also instructed his brother that he was to do everything exactly as he was told, whatever the nice doctors and the asylum staff wanted him to do. 

Even with the affects of the drug, Sherlock had still felt the almost uncontrollable urge to strangle his brother, or, if that proved difficult, at least shove his pompous, condescending words back down his slimy throat. Sherlock would have been glad to accept either option. He had murmured his hatred to his brother, telling Mycroft how much he'd come regret being born, and he had better let him go that very second. If Mycroft had heard him, he hadn't showed any sign. Seconds later, his brother had then left him to it, and Sherlock had been seized by the strongest sense of fear. He was a prisoner, and he had absolutely no idea what to expect, or what would happen to him. 

And his captivity had begun. He had just laid there, on his bed, staring up at the white ceiling. 

Exactly the way he was doing right at that second.

It had been the longest thirteen days of his life.

But, there was still one thing he was certain of. John would be looking for him. John would come for him. Which was a good thing, as Sherlock had come to quickly accept that escape was not a likely option. He had hardly even seen another living person, only the two orderlies that he had affectionately nicknamed Grunt One and Grunt Two, who were kind enough to bring him food and drink, and help him to the bathroom to relieve himself, and, when he was really having a good day, take a shower. Those were also the only few sublime moments now when he got to be released from his restraints. The straps had appeared on day eight, after he had tried to fight his way out of the room for the fourth time. They had drugged him, again, and when he had awakened, he had found himself tied up. He had yelled for an hour before anyone had come to attend him. He had demanded his freedom, but his doctor, or Mycroft's stooge, as Sherlock preferred to call him, informed him that the straps were staying until he a. learned to behave and b. made an effort to respond to therapy. Sherlock had told him that this would happen when Hell freezes over. So, the doctor had shrugged and left him to it. Maybe a better name for the arrogant man would be Doctor Moron. That certainly suited him. He expected Sherlock to open up to him? No chance. The only man Sherlock wanted to talk to was John Watson. He had told Doctor Moron the same, not that the man had taken a blind bit of notice. In this place, Sherlock was not worth listening too. He was nothing. Not something he found easy to take. 

Mycroft had tried to visit him three times since he had last seen him. Sherlock, though, refused to permit him. He had made his feelings perfectly clear. He would see his brother when he agreed to Sherlock's terms. First, get rid of the restraints, secondly, Sherlock wanted to pick the staff who would be allowed to talk to him. The ones that were forced on him were such ignoramuses that they were actually starting to sap Sherlock's intelligence. And finally, most importantly, he wanted Doctor Moron to disappear and be replaced by the only man he wanted to help him through his addiction. Sherlock would only talk to John. Mycroft had been told these conditions, and he had looked on, his face expressionless. He had then nodded and taken his leave without even replying to Sherlock. So Sherlock's stubbornness had grown with every passing day. Even when the Doctor instructed Sherlock he HAD to see Mycroft, and had allowed his brother entry to his room, Sherlock had just laid there, eyes closed, refusing to speak. He had blocked out Mycroft's very existence. 

No matter what Mycroft said or did, Sherlock had only said two words to him, repeatedly; “Bring John.” 

And Mycroft's patience had finally worn completely thin and he had left, clearly frustrated.

Sherlock had been pleased. Finally, a victory. Small, but still a triumph. Sherlock would take what he could get.

That had been yesterday. Sherlock knew deep down that there was no chance that Mycroft would actually give in. He would not let Sherlock see John, he took too much pleasure in having Sherlock in his power. Well, Sherlock would not play. Not until Mycroft gave him what he wanted.

Sherlock's ears pricked up. Footsteps coming his way. And it took him another second to realise it was the ever dull-as-dishwater Doctor Moron.

Sherlock frowned.

_Boring._

The Doctor entered and stood just inside the door, regarding Sherlock carefully. Sherlock glared back, waiting for the other man to speak.

“How are you this morning, Sherlock?” The doctor enquired

Sherlock smirked. “Same question every day, Doctor? Maybe you could think up an original one for me tomorrow? It is the highlight of my day.”

The other man sighed. “You could _try_ and be pleasant, Sherlock. It would actually make your stay with us go by a little easier, believe me.”

“I doubt it,” came the stubborn reply.

The doctor shrugged. “As you wish. Act like a child then, and be treated like one in return. It makes no difference to me.” He stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “You are your own worst enemy, you know.”

Sherlock smiled humourlessly. “I'm really not. I have an enemy and he's a lot more dangerous than could imagine. But you can think what you like, doctor. You haven't met many of my enemies, have you?” He blinked. “Except for the obvious, of course.”

“Your brother is not your enemy. He wants to help you.”

“Matter of opinion.”

“Have it your way,” the doctor barked. His tone was so know-it-all and condescending, it put Sherlock's teeth on edge. To have to listen to this pompous little man, with his piggy eyes and fake smile, telling Sherlock how he was going so wrong with his life, Mycroft could not have thought up a worse kind of torture for his brother if he'd tried. “He's here again this morning, hoping to see you.”

Sherlock clenched his restrained hands into fists.

“Is he alone?”

“Yes.”

“Then my feelings haven't changed. Tell him I'll only talk to him if he brings my friend Doctor John Watson with him. Otherwise, I'm not interested.” And he closed his eyes to empathise his words. He heard the doctor muttering under his breath and he wondered what he'd said. He didn’t ask though, he didn’t want to give the other man the pleasure of knowing just how curious Sherlock truly was.

“I'll tell him,” the doctor replied at last. “And I'll return later, Sherlock, for our session. And I'd like you to talk to me this time, that’s why I'm here.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. Sherlock didn't respond. The doctor pursed his lips. “I do want to help you Sherlock, whether you want to believe me, or not. It doesn't really matter anyway.”

He moved to the door, and quietly opened it.

Sherlock could not resist any longer.

“Why did you become a doctor?”

The other man hesitated. “To help people.”

“Right,” Sherlock said quickly. “It wasn't because you were forced out of the army then?”

The doctor stopped dead. He turned to stare at Sherlock. “What are you-”

“You were in the army once. It's far to obvious from the way you move and speak. I happen to be very close to a particular army doctor and I notice the similarities. There is something else though, you hold yourself very differently to John, you have such an air of importance.” He was staring, wide eyed, at the doctor now, finally able to confirm what he had deduced. He hadn't want to speak before this, just thinking to this man was allowing him more access than Sherlock wanted, but he was bursting to share what he had noticed. It felt good to get it off his chest. And besides, he needed to know if he was right. “I'm assuming that you were an officer, high in rank. A Captain?” The doctor's hand tightened on the handle. Sherlock noticed. “No. Higher. A colonel, then?”

The doctor glared at Sherlock. Then, very slowly, he smiled.

“Very clever.”

Sherlock nodded. “I'm right, then?”

“Of course.”

“So, Colonel,” Sherlock continued, an air of superiority in his tone now. “Why did you get thrown out of the army?”

“What makes you think I did?”

Sherlock gave him a small smile. “There are little signs, though you have tried hard to hide them from me. Nice try.” He winked. “Not good enough though.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. He was clearly curious. 

“Go on then,” he urged Sherlock. “Impress.”

“Okay then.” His tone was smug, arrogant. The doctor was visibly uncomfortable. Sherlock liked to see him squirm. “You don't seem to like your job,” he began, knowingly, “or my brother, very much. You apparently have to be here rather than want too, which suggests you were offered this as an alternative position to the job you once occupied. You also have very little practical medical knowledge. The orderlies here have more experience than you do. I first took you as a psychiatrist and tried to play you as such but your behaviour patterns don't match that of any shrink I’ve ever met before. So, not an experienced psychiatrist anyway. You've been put here by my brother, his choice, not yours, to make me talk to you. And, it's worked, so you do have a certain charisma about you that can be picked up by moving through the army ranks. But you did something wrong. Something my brother saved you from. The army though, they couldn't cover up whatever disgrace you were part of so you were given over to the government, where you fell into my brothers hands. You're stuck here now as much as I am. Ergo, a disgraced officer who owes my brother a big debt. And, for that, I sympathise whole-heartedly with you.” He broke off, taking a deep breath. Finally, he gave the other man a mocking smile. “So? Did I get anything wrong?”

The doctor was silent for a few moments. He had been warned of exactly what Sherlock was capable of but to see it in action, concerning him, was obviously quite a moment for him, and he was impressed. 

“Nothing,” he said at last. “Well, except for the small fact that Mycroft helped me out of kindness, not for any other reason.”

Sherlock gave him a disbelieving look. “So, why don't you want to be here then?”

The doctor actually grimaced at this. Sherlock was pleased.

_Finally. I've hit a nerve._

“Ever thought, Sherlock,” the doctor replied, curtly; “That it's you that tries to make this difficult for everyone involved? Not me, nor your brother. You. Seeing as you want to know, Mycroft and I have been friends for many years. I made a stupid mistake and he picked up the pieces. I do owe him a big debt, many big debts at that, but it is certainly not as ugly or twisted as how you describe.” He took a step nearer. “Mycroft is worried about you, he wants me to help you as I do have experience in helping broken men heal. That’s why he asked for me.”

Sherlock stop smirking and, annoyed by his words, glared. “I'm not broken. Far from it.”

The doctor sighed. “I saw many men's lives destroyed by sexual assault in the army. I helped them, I can do the same for you.”

Sherlock tugged angrily at his restraints. This was not a conversation he was happy to have. “You don’t know anything about what happened.”

The other man gave him a sympathetic look. “From you, no, I don't. But Mycroft gave me the file, which told me the whole story. Sergeant Anderson, the rape, the Butcher, and how you've struggled to cope, getting involved with an unscrupulous character by the name of Moriarty...”

Sherlock had heard enough. “I don't want to talk about it. I want you to go.”

The doctor ground his teeth in frustration. “Maybe not, but you need to talk about it.”

“Not with you.” He closed his eyes. “Leave me alone.”

“Mister Holmes...”

“Get out of here!” Sherlock suddenly yelled. “Get out!”

The doctor was taken aback by his sudden fury. He shook his head in frustration. “If you won't talk to me, Sherlock, you are letting him beat you, don't you see that?”

“I didn't ask for your advice, doctor.” Sherlock opened his eyes and glared daggers at the other man. “Or your company. I don't belong here, and I'm not going to become my brothers puppet to save him all of this embarrassment. Won't don't you tell him that?” 

The doctor jerked his head. “As you wish. I think you'll change your mind, in the end. Even you aren't that stubborn.”

As he turned to leave, Sherlock actually allowed a himself a small, snide smile. “I wouldn't count on it,” he muttered, and then, under his breath, he added the pet name he had chosen for his unfortunate doctor. “Doctor Moron.” 

The doctor froze. Sherlock watched him. The doctor turned slowly, and regarded Sherlock, his face displaying his anger. Sherlock knew he had sounded immature but, in that moment, he didn't care. What did it matter if he upset his captor? The man was not going to let him go, that much was obvious. 

The doctor caught Sherlock's gaze, and for a split second, the hate he saw there made him shiver. For one tiny moment, the man was no longer a pompous, arrogant former Colonel. Instead, Sherlock felt the rage just hidden out of sight, and he didn't like it.

The doctor was fighting to contain his temper. Finally, he replied, “I've told you before, Sherlock. My name is Doctor Moran. I suggest you try showing me some respect for a change. For your own good.” He smiled at Sherlock. It was not a nice smile. “Do I make myself clear?”

Sherlock nodded, despite himself. 

Moran gave him a curt nod. “That's better.” He gestured to the door. “I'll fetch your brother. When he's here, try to act like an adult.” His tone had turned spiteful, taunting. “If you can somehow manage that.”

He gave Sherlock a nasty smile, and then swept out, slamming the door hard behind him. 

Sherlock stared at the closed door, that feeling of dread swirling once more within him. All of his instincts were screaming a warning at him. Whether Mycroft's intentions towards him were good or not, Sherlock knew one thing for absolute definite.

_Something was very wrong._

XXX

Alone once more, Sherlock had decided that the best course of action would be to close his eyes again. That way, he could rest his vision, and give himself a break from staring at that same boring white ceiling. There was nothing for him to do but lay there, and think. He knew eventually the boredom would drive him mad. For now, he reasoned that as there was no point in opening his eyes if there was nothing worth looking at, then why should he bother? 

_I wish I could sleep. Sleep would be good. Go somewhere else, even if it is make believe. Make believe is better than reality._

It was all extremely tedious.

He pictured his home on Baker Street, Mrs Hudson's sweet, welcoming smile, and, of course John. He wondered again where John was, what he was doing. He hoped his friend was safe. He hoped John was missing him.

_He better be._

He was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the tell tale signs of the very familiar footsteps entering his cell. So, when that pompous, obnoxious voice filled the room, interrupting his peace, he felt some surprised mixed in with the sudden annoyance.

 _That's all I need. A lecture._

“Good morning, Sherlock.” Mycroft said loudly. “How are you?”

Sherlock, attempting to control his sudden and all consuming anger towards his brother, opened one eye and stared dismissively at his brother.

“Is it morning? I have very little way of knowing. As you can see, they didn't even feel it necessary to give me a prison with a proper window. Were there no better rooms available? Not one with a balcony, by chance?”

Mycroft shook his head slightly. There was a slight smirk of amusement on his lips. How Sherlock wished he could wipe that smugness of his brother's irritating face. 

“You're fine then, Sherlock. Good to know.”

Sherlock opened both his eyes then, and glared coldly at his brother.

“I am a long damn way away from being _fine,_ thanks to you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft moved closer. “If you have a complaint or a problem, Sherlock, then I suggest try to be sensible and answer me properly when I ask you a question.” He leaned forward. “And stop wasting my time.” He regarded his brother closely. Sherlock cringed, not liking being under his brother's scrutiny at all. “Now,” Mycroft continued haughtily, “And do try and tell me nicely please, how are you feeling today?”

“Do you care?” Sherlock shot back. 

Mycroft frowned. “You know I care, Sherlock. Try not to be so childish, please!”

“You kidnap me off the street, lock me up in a nut house, and then you have the gall to say I'm being _childish_ about it?”

His older brother rounded on him then. “I just want you well, Sherlock!”

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh coldly at that. “Do you? Really? That's so funny, Mycroft, because I really want to see you in excruciating pain!” He pulled at his restraints. “Look at me! I'm a prisoner! They keep me like this, tied down, for hours on end. They don't let me out of this damned room! Tell me how any of this is supposed to help me?”

Mycroft took a deep breath to steady himself. He stood, looking on quietly, waiting for Sherlock to bring his ranting to and end. When Sherlock finally did relent, Mycroft replied, carefully and gently. “I know you are not eating, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pursed his lips together. “So?” He barked, “I very rarely do eat.”

Mycroft nodded. “I know that too. Not something I have ever really understood.”

“What business is it of yours if I eat or not?” Sherlock responded, dryly. “Surely your own diet is enough for you to be concerned with? My eating habits are not your concern, Mycroft!”

Mycroft continued on, regardless of Sherlock's interruptions. “You need to eat.”

“What I need, _brother_ , is to get out of this room.”

Mycroft clenched his fists together. How much longer were they going to dance round in circles? What was the point of any of this conversation? Sherlock could not be reasoned with, after all. 

“That's not possible.” He sighed, eventually.

“Oh?” Sherlock's eyes were flashing. He was not going to let this go without a fierce fight. “And why is that?”

“Because, every time they let you out for exercise or just for a change of scenery, you try to run.”

Sherlock scoffed. “And that surprises you?”

“Clearly not.” Mycroft snapped back. “But you need to stay here, for the time being, for your own good.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “I _don't_ belong here,” he snarled.

Mycroft took Sherlock by surprise then, actually laying a hand on his brothers arm. Sherlock hated the contact, but he was made helpless by his restraints. He stared up at his brother, unable to prevent the pleading that he knew would be evident within his eyes. He was willing Mycroft to see sense and put an end to this madness. He wanted out of there and maybe, just maybe, Mycroft would show him some mercy.

It was a vain hope.

After a short moment, Mycroft patted Sherlock's arm. “You need help.” He informed him, addressing his younger brother now as he would a small child.

Sherlock wanted to kill him.

_You arrogant, stupid fool._

“You can't help me like this.” Sherlock retorted. “What is wrong with you, Mycroft?”

“Make an effort, Sherlock.” Mycroft told him, firmly. It was as if he was purposely trying to infuriate his brother all the more by ignoring him. “Talk to Doctor Moran. Open up to him.”

Sherlock eyed Mycroft. There was something different about Mycroft now. Sherlock noted the subtle change to his brother's tone, as if the older man was trying to hint at something. But Sherlock was too weak, to damned annoyed to take any real notice. Whatever Mycroft's plans were, he certainly didn't have Sherlock's best interests at heart. He had proved that by locking him up in this mind numbingly pretentious place to begin with. Sherlock was only to aware how his brother now saw him; he was a toy for Mycroft to play and to deal with as his brother saw fit. Well, no more. Sherlock was tired, and he was angry. And he didn't want to play any more.

“I have nothing to say to Doctor Moron,” Sherlock announced stubbornly.

“I doubt that,” came the sullen reply. “I'm sure you have plenty to say, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, wearily. “You always do.”

Sherlock glared. “Not today.”

Mycroft turned his back on Sherlock, looking toward the closed door. When he spoke again, it was with hushed tones.

“You need to talk about Anderson, Sherlock. About your feelings and fears, and how your ordeal has effected you.”

Sherlock shuddered. He couldn't help it. As always whenever that name was mentioned, the memories came flooding back.

The cries. The thrusts. The shame. 

_“Why don't you tell me what you can deduce from that?”_

Sherlock couldn't stop the strangled moan escaping from deep down within his throat. He closed his eyes, and he was immediately back in that room, pinned down, his hair rubbing against with the fireplace with each agonising thrust. And Anderson was laughing at him, and touching him, and …

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “Stop torturing yourself.” He was facing his brother again, and no one could mistake the concern that was now etched on his face. Even Sherlock couldn't deny it was there. He swallowed hard.

“You have to move on.” He urged him. “I won't let that animal win.”

Sherlock chuckled. “He already has won, Mycroft.” His voice was low, devastated. Beaten. “Look at me! Look where I am.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “You can be sure that you are much more comfortable than Mister Anderson is right now.”

Sherlock frowned. “You never told me,” he whispered. “What did you do with Anderson?”

Mycroft coughed, bringing up a hand to rub at his forehead. “All that matters is that Anderson will never hurt you again, Sherlock. You can trust me on that.”

Sherlock knew there was no point probing any further. Unless his brother wanted him to know, Sherlock would never find out what fate befall Anderson. What amazed Sherlock was that he truly was interested and, inexplicably, same strange part of him actually almost cared.

Sherlock did not understand. After what Anderson had done to him, why was he even giving him a second thought?

He didn't deserve it.

_But you're a better man than him, Sherlock._

Sherlock tutted to himself. That annoying, nagging inner voice, always urging him to do the right thing, make the compassionate choice.

_The John effect._

Mycroft was watching him closely. Only when Sherlock made eye contact once more did Mycroft continue.

“And, of course, we need to do something about this unhealthy obsession you have with one James Moriarty.”

Sherlock was instantly uncomfortable. This whole conversation had been excruciating for him, and just at the mere mention of Moriarty, it had just become unbearable.

“That is my problem, Mycroft. I will deal with it on my own.”

“You can't, Sherlock. You need to discuss it. Doctor Moran truly is here to help you! I picked him because I believe he will provide you with the answers you seek. Use him!”

Something deep within Sherlock stirred. He wanted to tell his brother of his doubts and suspicions regarding Moran. He wanted to inform his brother that there was something not right with his old friend, something Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on, but he knew was there all the same.

But what was the point? Mycroft wouldn't listen to him anyway.

So, instead of speaking his mind, he chose to be defensive instead. Putting on a childish voice, he replied, “And if I am a good little boy, and I sit and talk to the good doctor, pouring my heart and soul out for him to grab, study and destroy, what do I get then?”

Mycroft actually smiled. “Well, if you actually show me that you are making progress here, and discussing all your issues in depth with Moran, then I will try and organise a visit between you and a certain Doctor Watson...”

Sherlock reacted at once. His eyes widened, and he once more pulled on his restraints.

“You'd do that?” He muttered, almost not wanting to believe it so as not to be disappointed. “You would bring John here?”

“I told you, I would try. John and I have not exactly been in much contact since you were hospitalised.”

“Kidnapped,” Sherlock corrected him, at once.

“Whatever word you prefer, Sherlock,” Mycroft responded, with a wave of his hand. “Trouble is, maybe your wonderful Doctor Watson has already moved on? It has been over a week, and he hasn't even tried to call me, not even one tiny little text. I wouldn't count on his visit just yet, Sherlock. Even if I do allow it.”

Sherlock's face was like thunder. “If you haven't spoken to him, Mycroft, then it is due to you probably blocking his calls. He'll be looking for me and, trust me now, he is a lot cleverer than either you or I give him credit for. He'd find me, with or without your help.”

“Is that right?” Mycroft replied. “As you know Sherlock, I like John. A lot. But I do think you put too much faith in him. He's not like us.”

The tiniest traces of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face. “No,” he agreed. “And that is exactly why I have all my faith in him, Mycroft. He _will_ find me.”

“Talk to Moran, Sherlock.” His brother's face was set, and his tone had the tiniest hint of desperation about it. “Talk to him about Moriarty. And then, maybe, things will improve for you. More than you could realise.”

And with a quick, curt nod, Mycroft marched to the door, opened it and slipped through, leaving Sherlock to stare after him, his mind already re-evaluating every word his brother had just spoken.

Mycroft was mistaken in John. And that would be to his brother's cost.

With Mycroft's permission or not, John _would_ find him. There was no doubt in Sherlock's mind. If there was one word he knew described John best, it was persistent. John had made mistakes in the past, helping Mycroft being a particularly big, very recent one. But that didn't matter to Sherlock. It was in the past now. Gone. Over with. All that mattered was the now and the soon to be.

And John had to come soon. He knew it.

He closed his eyes again. Now, there was only one thought in his head as he finally felt himself slowly giving in to the black abyss.

_“He will come for me.”_

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, guys.

It was dark and cold in the car park, and John had been standing there for well over three hours. Just there, on that spot, not wanting to move in case he missed his chance. It had been raining solidly for some time now, and John felt that the weather was worsening, matching his mood. Everything was looking pretty bleak at that moment. John wrapped his arms around himself, trying to keep warm. Most people would say he was crazy, waiting there for someone who didn't even want to see him, someone who had gone out of their way to avoid him. But John had no choice. Even if he ended up being dismissed once again, he had to keep trying.

It was the least that he owed to Sherlock.

It had been ten days, the longest ten days of John's life, since he had allowed Sherlock to be taken from him. That was the hardest part of all of this for John to stomach. Everything that had happened was all down to him. He had freely offered Sherlock to Mycroft, had betrayed his best friend. No, it was worse then that. He had actually plotted to bring about Sherlock's downfall with his brother. It had been the perfect plan, and it had worked like a dream. Only, it wasn't what John had truly wanted. To have to watch his usually always calm and collected best friend being bundled into a car against his will, clearly terrified and desperate for John to help him, those moments would stay with John for the rest of his life. And he would never forgive himself. Sherlock has trusted John, had put all of his faith into him. And John had let him down. Now, just how was he supposed to live with himself?

 _'Why should I be handed any breaks after what I've done?'_ John reasoned. _'I'm getting exactly what I deserve.'_

He had only one goal now. To find Sherlock. And that was why he couldn't allow himself any rest until he had put things right and made up for his stupidity and selfishness. It didn't matter to John how long it took, or how far he had to go. He would not give up until he saw Sherlock again. But something had occurred to him pretty quickly after Sherlock had been taken from him, and that was that he could not do this alone. He needed help.

He had tried Mycroft first. Retrieving his sim card from the mess that had once been his mobile phone handset, he had rushed straight to Sarah's, taken her phone, only explaining the bare minimum of the situation to her as possible. There were many reasons for this; mainly due to John not wanting to put Sarah in any direct danger but also to spare his own shame at having to describe his own betrayal of Sherlock to his possible girlfriend. And Sarah had not pried, apparently taking note of the state John was in. She'd stood back and watched closely as John had struggled with her mobile phone, his fingers trembling, as he had tried unsuccessfully to switch the sim cards. Without a word, Sarah had calmly plucked the phone from his shaky grasp, and had finished the job for him.

“He'll be fine;” She had whispered to him gently. “Don't worry, John. Whatever this is about, Sherlock's far too clever. He'll sort it out.”

And John had given her a grateful smile but had not replied. How could he? What would she think of him, if she had known the truth? And besides, the person who had actually kidnapped Sherlock was the _only_ man his best friend might actually not be able to outsmart. And that thought was enough to terrify John all the more.

So John had called Mycroft. He had not be surprised to find that the number had been disconnected. He had been expecting that. The last person Mycroft would want to speak to was John. 

_'And why should he bother talking to me anyway?'_ John thought, anger coursing through him. _'He got exactly what he wanted, didn't he? He doesn't need me any more.'_

John had spent the next two days hopelessly searching for any clues that might lead him to some sign as to what had happened to his friend. But, expectedly, his search had been fruitless. Well, until, on the third day, he had received a phone call from Mycroft. The number had been withheld, of course.

And the conversation had been as vague, unfriendly, and unhelpful as it possibly could have been:

_"Hello?"_

_-"Good afternoon, John."_

_"Mycroft, is that you?"_

_-"Clearly."_

_"Jesus, Mycroft! Thank God!"_

_-"John, you need to listen to me."_

_"Oh, do I? What's been going on? Where the hell have you been? You've cancelled the old mobile number, how am I supposed to contact you?"_

_-"Now, John. This is not helping. Please. I don't have much time."_

_"Where's Sherlock?"_

_-"That is obviously why I am calling you. I must ask you to desist in your search John, as pitiful as it is. Sherlock does not wish to be found, least of all by you. He is fine and well, and is receiving the help he needs. He wishes to have no contact with you for the foreseeable future. I am truly sorry, but neither of us can say be surprised can we? Not after what you did..."_

_"What I did? But I was helping you, you piece of... Wait, is he there with you? Can I speak..."_

_-"I must go now, John. I hope you have noted my advice. The next instructions you receive may not be passed on to you in quite such a friendly manner. I hope I have made myself clear."_

_"Mycroft, please..."_

_-"Have a nice day, John."_

And that had been that. He had had no further contact from Mycroft. John had been angry and upset by the call. He had asked himself repeatedly whether he believed Mycroft, if it was true that Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him. John couldn't blame him if it was. He had let Sherlock down in the worst possible way. Why should Sherlock want anything to do with him? John had seriously contemplated giving up, as Mycroft had ordered him, and put it all behind him and move on. Sherlock would do better without a friend like him. But he had come to realise that he at least owed it to Sherlock to try and find him, help him, and explain his reasons to him. He owed that to their friendship, and to whatever that friendship could have turned into. Still, John had no idea what that might have been. He only knew one thing, the feelings inside of him that convinced him to ignore Mycroft and his threats and to keep looking: He wanted Sherlock back.

Mycroft had not made any effort to contact John after that, leaving the doctor in limbo once more. By the fifth day, John was going out of his mind. He had no one to turn to, no one to ask for help. Sarah had stopped calling him, finally growing tired of his snappiness and endless worrying. He couldn't blame her. What could she say to help him? What could she do? Could she help him find Sherlock? No. She was a hindrance, getting in his way, with her concerns and gentle nature. She couldn't help him this time. No one could help John. No one but Sherlock.

John had tried Lestrade a few times, but the detective had been supposedly “unavailable.” He must have been involved with so many cases, seeing as how he was unavailable every time John called. So, John had gone to the station to talk to him, to try and persuade him to assist him in finding Sherlock. Lestrade had been away from the building, apparently. John had sat there and refused to move. It had taken three officers to remove him bodily from the premises. 

John had been at rock bottom after that. But, it was three days later when his hope was restored, in the worst possible way. John had received a text that had both horrified him and excited him. Excited him because, at last, it was _something._ Some news about Sherlock for him to grab onto. Finally.

What horrified him at the same time, though, was the fact that the text was from Moriarty.

_“You must be stressing. Poor you. If you want to know where Sherlock is, meet me and I will pass on the information. Sherlock being out of the game is no fun for anyone, least of all me. Text me back. M.”_

Now, John had something to cling on to. Something to hope for. But it had come from someone he refused to trust. He may be desperate, but he wasn't stupid. So John had bided his time and had waited at home for a few days, aware that he was being watched, and even followed when he did venture out. That was how he knew Mycroft was still there, still keeping tabs on him. That seemed a strange thing to do if Sherlock had truly turned his back on John and wanted nothing to do with him. Why would Mycroft waste resources like that? So, John had been smart, thinking and planning, just as Sherlock would have done, being clever, watching and waiting for a chance for him to get to Lestrade, unseen. And the opportunity he had pined for had finally come his way. He had hung around at the station, keeping out of view, watching as the uniforms came and went. He knew Lestrade was inside, he had seen him go in. Now, all he had to do was wait for him to leave again. He had even disguised himself, hoping that his shadows had not discovered what he was up to. So far, so good. And that was how he had found himself in that damp and miserable police car park for the last few hours. Keeping in the darkness, hoping he didn't gain any unwanted attention. He intended to see Lestrade, to make him listen. 

And he would wait all night if necessary. 

Suddenly, John heard footsteps in the distance, and they were getting closer. He cursed inwardly, knowing Sherlock would be able to tell exactly who was approaching in a matter of seconds. John had not yet learned that particular lesson from his friend. He wished he'd brought a torch. He stood there, ready to run if need be, but then felt a rush of relief when he saw Lestrade striding up to him. John smiled thankfully, but then the smile quickly disappeared when the doctor noticed the unmistakable figure of Sally Donovan walking a step or two behind him. As they walked to within a few feet of him and John could finally make out faces, he felt his anger increasing. 

Sally was smirking.

John balled his hands into fists. Not bothering with any greeting, he snapped; “What the hell is she doing here.”

Sally tossed her head. “Nice to see you too.”

“Doctor Watson...” Lestrade begun, but John cut across him.

“She has no right to be back here! After what she did.”

Sally's eyes narrowed. “Actually, I have every right to be here. I work here. You, however, are trespassing.”

Lestrade had stepped between them, clearly unsure as to whether John would lose his senses completely and do something, Lestrade hoped, the Doctor would very much regret.

“John,” he tried again, less formally this time, “Sergeant Donovan has been transferred back here.”

John went to open his mouth and argue this further but Lestrade held up a hand to stop him.

“There's no point us standing here debating the ins and outs of this, doctor.” Lestrade told him, wearily. “The order for her to return came from a lot higher up than me. It's the way it is, and she's here now because she saw you hovering around in the car park and was going to have you thrown out and I thought it would be better to come and talk to you myself. So, I'm here. What do you want?”

John glanced away. This is what he wanted, having Lestrade's attention, but not with that bitch hanging around there too. Well, he had no choice. He had to take this opportunity while it was in front of him. After all, he needed Lestrade's help.

“It's Sherlock,” John whispered.

Lestrade sighed. “I figured.”

Sally raised an eyebrow. “Freak's not with you then? I thought you two were joined at the hip...”

John was in her face before she could finish her sentence.

“Don't you ever call him that again in front of me. Okay?”

Donovan was taken aback by his anger. She stole a quick glance at Lestrade, who was staring down at the ground. Sally brushed her hair behind her ears, clearly uncomfortable. “So, where is he, got bored of you, did he? Run off? Gone missing?” A cruel look spread across her face again. “What's up with him?” She shrugged. “Did the master get bored of his pet?”

John blinked. He then turned to Lestrade, with an expression of I told you so. 

“Time away did her some good, I see.” He barked. “Well done.”

Lestrade was frowning. “Okay Sally, enough. Thanks for that. I can take this from here. Get back to work, please.”

Sally eyed him. “If you need me to help you throw this loser off of the...” 

Lestrade tutted in frustration, and actually gave her a little push. “No thanks, Sergeant. I said, go back. Now.”

Sally gave a small shake of her head, glared at John, then turned on her tail and hurried away, her arms crossed over her chest.

John waited until she was out of wavelength and then turned quickly to Lestrade. “There's no point beating around the bush here. I need your help, Lestrade.”

Lestrade frowned. “My help?”

“To find Sherlock!” John exclaimed, and then, more quietly; “Please Lestrade. I'm scared out of my mind! I just want to find him...”

Lestrade looked down. “John, I'm sorry, but I told you before. I can't help you.”

John balled his hands into fists. “Why not? I know you care about him. You're the only person I can turn to.”

“Look, it's simple. If I help you, I lose my job. I can't risk everything. Not for Sherlock, not for you. I'm sorry.”

John was desperate. He grabbed Lestrade's arm. “Do you know how he was kidnapped?”

“Watson...” Lestrade warned.

John didn't listen. He kept on, regardless.

“He was bundled into a car by his own brother. And it was all my stupid fault! I stood by and let it happen. Now, Mycroft won't return my calls, won't even pass on any messages to Sherlock from me. Nothing. He must hate me. They could have taken Sherlock out of the country for all I know. They could have hurt him, Lestrade. Please. I need to put this right, to make amends. You have to help me find him!”

Lestrade jerked his arm out of John's reach. “I told you, I can't. Now, leave this area and stay away. If I find you on police grounds again, I will have you arrested. Do I make myself clear?”

With that, Lestrade began to walk towards one of the cars. It suddenly became clear to John that he was leaving off for the day. John could not let this go, he could not give up. As Lestrade unlocked his car, opened the door and got in, John followed him and leaned forward, preventing the man from closing the door again. 

“Dr Watson, I won't tell you again-”

“I had a text. From Moriarty about Sherlock.”

“I don't care.”

“He says-”

“I DON'T CARE!”

John stared at him.

Lestrade shook his head. “Look, just stay away from me!”

He pushed out, forcing John away from the car. He then slammed the door on the doctor, started the ignition and, without even a backwards glance, drove away. John, having fallen to the ground, was slumped there in a crumpled heap, staring after Lestrade in complete shock, seeing his last hope driving off into the distance.

John just stayed there, frozen in place. He closed his eyes, the complete devastation of his situation hitting him like a brick. He wanted to collapse inside as well as out, to give in to the dismay threatening to overcome him. 

That nagging voice would not be silenced.

_'This is your fault. This is all your own stupid fault.'_

The tears began to fall down his face and he let them. What good was fighting them doing any more? What good was any of it? He had no choices left. Only Moriarty offered him any help and how could he ever trust him? By turning to Sherlock's greatest foe, he was letting his best friend down. Again. However he looked at it, he had failed Sherlock. Only one question remained.

_'What am I going to do now?'_

XXX

Lestrade drove around the corner, keeping an eye in his mirror. He felt guilty, of course he did, but he had to stick to the plan. He looked again. There was no activity, the street was quiet. Maybe too quiet? He quickly slowed down and then pulled the car over, coming to a stop in a lay by. He turned off his lights and just sat there, staring down at his mobile now laying in his lap.

“Come on,” he hissed, and then, sure enough, the phone buzzed and lit up.

Lestrade snatched at his phone, pressed a button and quickly read the text he had received.

He muttered under his breath and then replied quickly, always aware of any noise, any movement near him, ready to drive off again if need be. Still, there was nothing. 

He sent a text back. _“Were we right?”_

It only took a few seconds before he got his reply. He scanned the latest text, and then the ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.

_“We were right. Two men were spying on Watson. They saw me and disappeared. You have five minutes at most. Hurry.”_

Lestrade shot into action at once. With a smirk, he tossed his phone to one side and then reached down, pulling up the handbrake. He flicked his lights on again, and the street was lit up once more. He reversed quickly, and then swung the car around, heading back towards the car park. He saw the good doctor, still standing exactly where he left him, and being blinded by Lestrade's head lights. He could also tell that John was completely astonished. He flashed his lights, and saw John cover his eyes with one hand, squinting as the car screeched to a halt in front of him. John edged towards the car nervously, clearly unsure what to expect, and he visibly relaxed when he saw Lestrade. He also didn't try to hide his surprise at Lestrade's apparent change of heart.

“What's going on?” He enquired. “Why have you-”.

Lestrade threw open the door furiously. “No time.” He hissed, and gestured angrily at the other man. “Just get in.”

John stared back at him. He shook his head in bewilderment. “I don't under-” 

Lestrade slammed his fist against the steering wheel in his frustration.

“Don't just stand there gaping like a idiot, all right? Do as I say, now, or this will all have been for nothing! Get in here and _get a move on!”_

John didn't hesitate any longer. He slid into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and then grabbed for the glove compartment, as Lestrade, his face grim, quickly reversed again, backing them quickly out of the car park.

“Lestrade, what...” John tried again, clinging on for dear life as the vehicle gathered speed.

“We were being watched,” Lestrade replied at once, causing John to look at him, wide eyed. “Keep quiet, for now, until we are in the clear.” 

“But who?”

“Not now!”

The car sped off. John saw how preoccupied Lestrade was with the rear view mirror and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Are we being followed?” John asked.

Lestrade shook his head no. “My phone is beside you,” he replied. “Have a quick look at my texts.” John picked up the phone and scrolled back through the texts. He frowned and the conversation between Lestrade and Donovan.

“What the-” He began but Lestrade waved his hand to silence his question.

“We knew that the station car park had been under surveillance for over a week. They thought we hadn't noticed. We're not that stupid. ” He smiled grimly. “Or maybe they're not as smart as they like to think they are." He glanced across as John. "You know, Sherlock's brother's people."

John jerked his head. “Sherlock always says that.”

“And he's right.” 

John felt that familiar twitch of regret at the mentions of Sherlock. He had so many questions for Lestrade, he didn't know where to begin. Mainly, what exactly was the detective doing? 

“Are you actually going to help me?” He asked, somewhat coldly. His defence mechanism was in place to cover up his desperation. Not that he hadn't already made that completely obvious.

Lestrade gave him a condescending glance.

“What do you think?”

John swallowed. Suddenly, he felt a spark of hope.

“I thought,” he broke off, hesitating. “I thought that you didn't care.”

Lestrade gritted his teeth. “Don't go getting all emotional on me now, doctor. Sherlock is more trouble than he's worth, and we both know it.” He shot John a look before adding; “But he's also my friend. Of course I'll help find him. But if Mycroft's men had cottoned on to what I was planning to do, I'd have found myself out on my ear.” He considered; “Or transferred to outer Mongolia. Either way, I'd have been no use to Sherlock or to you. I had to do it this way.” He lowered his voice. “But I'm sorry if I hurt you.”

John smiled. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, Sherlock owes me one.”

John shrugged, “Well, I'm sure he'd say you've just repaid one favour to _him_ back.” 

Lestrade snorted.

The doctor then looked back down at Lestrade's phone. “These texts, were they from Donovan?”

“Obviously,” Lestrade replied. “That’s why I brought her with me tonight, to have a little snoop around and let me know the lay of the land.”

“Donovan _helped_ me?”

Lestrade pursed his lips together. “She wanted to. She noticed you, and was certain you were being watched. That was all her idea, to wind you up like that. She didn't mean those things, she was certain somebody was listening. Seems she did her own digging while she was away.” 

“Looking for Anderson?”John questioned, his tone cold.

Lestrade grimaced. “He did mean a lot to her.” He looked the other man in the eye, momentarily taking his gaze off of the road. “She wants to help Sherlock too. She's changed a lot, John. She regrets everything. You should give her a chance.”

John swallowed. It wasn't so easy for him to forgive. He glanced away, looking out of the window.

Lestrade sighed. “So,” he declared, “where are we going next then?”

John shrugged helplessly. “How should I know?” He snapped back.

Lestrade swung the car to the side of the road suddenly. When they had come to a stop, he turned and fixed John with a glare. “First off, we have to work together, doctor. Maybe it would be good if you dropped the Sherlock-like attitude now. Okay?”

John felt small. He knew Lestrade was right and he nodded, meekly.

Lestrade seemed satisfied. “Thank you.” He leaned forward, placing a hand on John's shoulder. “I know you've had a tough few days, John, but you have to put that behind you. I need you on my side, not fighting me. I don't see that we have so many options, here. You're going to have to text our friend Mister Moriarty, like you mentioned earlier.” Lestrade couldn't help but shiver as he said those words. Relying on Moriarty seemed like a big mistake before they had even started, but what choice did they have?

John hated the sound of that idea too, but he did agree with Lestrade. There was no other way. At least now, when he faced Moriarty, he would no longer be alone. He fished in his pocket and pulled out his phone. Then, with a heavy heart, he texted five words.

_“Okay, where shall we meet.”_

Lestrade wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Sherlock had better appreciate this.” He said, only half joking.

John actually smirked. “Probably not.” He looked at Lestrade. “But I do.”

Lestrade smiled back at him.

John wet his dry lips, looked back down at the phone, and pressed a button. Then, he grimaced. “Text sent,” he reported.

Lestrade nodded. “And now,” he announced, unnecessarily, “we wait.”

They looked away from each other, both gazing out of the window.

It was going to be a long, uncomfortable, night.

TBC


	10. Caged

_It's going to be a long night._

Sherlock was sitting, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed lazily, bored out of his brain. He had been in this session with Moran for what now felt like a year, but had in fact been only twenty five minutes. In those mind numbingly dull minutes so far, the tedious man had droned on about how Sherlock _must_ connect with his feelings, open up about his traumatic experiences, and allow everyone in the hospital to help him through his ordeal, as that is “what they were there to do.” Sherlock had stopped listening after the fourth minute. He wondered if Moran would ever actually notice.

He rubbed at his sore wrists, still enjoying the freedom of being out of those damned straps.

“Sherlock? Are you listening?”

_'Ah._

_He's noticed.'_

“Obviously not,” Sherlock drawled in response. “But the problem, _doctor_ , is that there has not been one single word that you've sprouted that would be worthy of my listening to it. So I gave up.”

“Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Why? So you can tell how I'm _feeling?_ "

He heard the anger in Moran's tone and it amused him.

“No, Sherlock,” came the soft, clipped reply; “I want you to look at me because you are being incredibly rude, and I will not stand for it in my hospital.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes at that, and fixed Moran with a glare.

“Mycroft's hospital, you mean?”

“No, I mean _my_ hospital, just as I said. I am in charge here, not your brother, and I will take the lengths that I believe are necessary to gain some results from you.” He placed his hands together, and leaned forward. “But as I do have your avert attention once more, Sherlock, and you chose to mention your brother, then I will return to the matter in hand. Mycroft would like you and I to discuss your rape.”

Sherlock eyed the doctor. "Does he now?" 

He was taken aback by how blunt the man was being.

He wasn't about to be a performing monkey, not for this arrogant doctor, and certainly not for his brother. 

Moran, meanwhile, was nodding. “He cares about you, Sherlock. It would be a good thing for you to start realising that. And I also believe it will do you a lot more good to be able to talk openly about what happened that night. So, do you wish to begin?”

“No.”

The other man sighed. “Sherlock, you must know that obstructing my assistance at every turn is completely pointless. A man of such great intelligence as you must, I am sure, appreciate that bottling all this anger up will only cause you more pain and harm in the future?”

“I will talk about what happened,” Sherlock snarled quickly. “I just won't talk about it with an idiot like you.”

“What did he do to you?” Moran asked softly, ignoring the insult. “I know about the physical attack, of course. What I want to know is how he made you feel. And tell me, how do you feel about it right now?”

Sherlock swallowed. To his own amazement, he heard himself whisper a reply, almost against his will. “Scared.” He closed his eyes, embarrassed by his weakness. “I feel stuck, as though I'll never be able to move past,” he hesitated, before adding, “ _it._ ”

“Why?”

“Because he was nothing to me,” Sherlock replied, with annoyance. “Unimportant. And that ordinary little man broke me.”

“How, though Sherlock? I want to know how he did it.” Moran's pen was poised, ready to take a note of his patient's replies. “What did it take? At what moment did you feel something breaking inside of you? Come now, lad. Tell me.”

Sherlock actually considered his words before replying. For the first time, he did feel at some ease talking to this man. Perhaps Moran could help him through this after all? Perhaps he should give him the benefit of the doubt and not channel the anger he felt towards Mycroft at him instead.

Sherlock leaned forward. “We, that is, Anderson and myself, fought before it happened. And he over powered me. He won. I'd never felt,” he paused, glancing down. “I'd never felt helpless before. The moment I knew was when he-”. 

Sherlock broke off, and brought a shaky hand up to his face. He felt the shame coursing through him once more, even heard Anderson's mocking words and laughter. He felt his rough grip, as his cold hands pushed and prodded, forcing Sherlock to his knees, to where Anderson required him to be.

He was back there again.

_Sherlock fought to keep his breathing under control. "Anderson," he said, as calmly as he could muster; "Please don't do this. It's gone too far."_

He steadied himself before continuing, trying to push the horrifying images out of his mind.

“He pushed me into the position so he could... where he could do _it_. I'd hit my head hard, that was how he'd gotten control. I was in agony; couldn't even think clearly let alone fight him, so I moved to where he wanted me to be.” Sherlock bowed his head. “I positioned myself on my knees before him and waited. I gave into him, I stopped being a man. I _let_ him do it.”

Sherlock broke off, his head bowed in shame. He stayed there for a moment, surprised when Moran didn't speak. He raised his head slowly and gazed at the other man, waiting for some kindly word or suggestion.

What he saw instead made his insides squirm.

Doctor Moran was smirking.

“Sounds like a fascinating experience,” he said, clearly amused, as if he and Sherlock were having a cheery conversation. “It certainly must have been a _magical_ moment for Sergeant Anderson. Oh, to have witnessed the exact second that he knew he had the great Sherlock Holmes whoring himself out in front of him. What a rush that must have been!”

Sherlock was utterly stunned. He opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

_Was he mishearing?_

After a beat, he finally managed to choke out; “What did you say?”

The doctor chuckled. He leaned closer. “I have to know: If he'd wanted you to suck his dick instead, would you have done it, Sherlock? Would you have opened your mouth for him like a good little slut”

Sherlock fought to keep his emotions under control. For the first time, he'd opened up to someone about the worst experience of his life, someone he believed was a professional, only for them to turn around and taunt him about it? He slowly rose to his feet. “You fucking bastard.”

“Now, now.” Moran said, warningly, and gestured to Sherlock's chair. “Please, take a seat.”

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded quietly. “What the hell do you want?”

The doctor rolled his eyes. “Really, we've been through this. I want to _help_ you, Sherlock.”

“Like hell you do.”

Moran sighed. He picked up his pen again, and began to scribble down notes furiously. “ _The patient resorts to personal attacks,” he stated, as he wrote; “Very often to cover up his own inadequacies..._ ” 

“Shut up.” Sherlock snapped.

“ _He needs to strike out at me, or rather the person attempting to break down his barriers as it is the only defence he knows..._ ”

Sherlock balled his hands into fists and leaned menacingly over the desk. “I said, shut up!”

“Not that that helped him where a certain Sergeant Anderson is concerned.” Moran stopped writing and looked up at the red faced, furious man opposite him, a tiny smile on his lips. “Sergeant Anderson forced his way through them, didn't he, Sherlock?” Another cold smile. “Or should I say, _thrusted..?_ ”

Sherlock stared at him, not quite believing his ears. Was this man, who was supposed to be his doctor, actually _mocking_ him?

“Nothing to say?” Moran continued, pleasantly. “No more insults, childish outbursts?”

“Plenty,” Sherlock responded. He spoke slowly, carefully. “Tell me, doctor, may I see your qualifications please?”

“I am afraid, Sherlock, that as a patient here, you have very few rights or requests to make.” He leaned back in his chair, with the air of someone who knew he was in complete control, and loving it. “I do want to help you, Sherlock. I want you to feel able to talk to me about your rape, your recovery, and your liaisons with one,” he glanced down at his papers, “Mister James Moriarty. Why don't you tell me? Maybe I can help you to face it.” He smiled. “You and I both have very little else to do while we are here. What is the harm?”

Sherlock blinked. “I'm not going to tell you another thing about me. You think I don't know that you're an imposter?”

“You have the nerve to call me a imposter?” Moran retorted. “Do you know what I put your occupation down as on your personal sheet? Unemployed.” His eyes flashed. “On benefits!” 

“I'm a consulting detective!” Sherlock threw back.

Moran laughed. “Oh please, you aren't even a proper detective, are you?”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Well, you aren't even a proper _doctor,_ are you, _Colonel_ Moran?”

It happened so quickly. Sherlock didn't see it coming. There was a hiss of anger, and a look of pure darkness crossed the other man's face. In the next moment, he sprang up, and struck Sherlock hard across the face, smacking his face to one side.

A beat passed as both men stood facing each other, breathing heavily.

Finally, Sherlock turned and stared victoriously at Moran.

“I think you need to work on your bedside manner, _Doctor,_ ” he whispered.

Moran glared at him, and then raised his hand to strike him again. Sherlock didn't flinch.

Suddenly, the doctor dropped his fist, and instead called out to Sherlock's two “aids.”

“Benjamin! Michael!”

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off of Moran as the two orderlies entered the room and stood, one either side of Sherlock, waiting for their leaders directions.

“This session is over,” Moran barked. “Take Mister Holmes back to his room, please.”

The men rushed to obey. They took hold of Sherlock's arms and began to lead him towards the door.

Michael looked back over at Moran. “Ah, Doctor? Will this patient still be requiring restraints?”

Sherlock looked quickly toward Moran. That had been part of the agreement between Moran, Mycroft and himself. If Sherlock played their game, he would be free of those damned bonds. Moran was clearly remembering the same promise, as he gave Sherlock a satisfied smile.

“Yes,” He told Michael. “I think so.”

“But we agreed-” Sherlock began.

“My decision has been made.” Moran cut across him. “I feel for the safety of yourself and others, extra precautions should continue to be taken.”

“That's a lie and you know it!” Sherlock shouted. “I'm not a danger. You cant keep me locked up...”

Moran's eyes were twinkling dangerously. “As I told you, Sherlock, I'm in charge here, not you, and not your brother. I think you will find I can do exactly as I wish. Perhaps some more time in your room will help you think about being more helpful in tomorrows session. Now, take him back please, gentlemen.”

Before he could argue further, Sherlock was pulled from the room. He was herded the short distance from Moran's office back to his little cell. He struggled slightly against the men, not wanting to be tied down again, desperate not to lose the small amount of freedom he had been given during his interlude with Moran. It was a pointless waste of energy. The men simply dragged him over to his bed, pinned him to the bed none to gently, and strapped him back down.

Sherlock said nothing, he just laid there, the pained look on his face showing his true feelings.

The men just smiled at Sherlock, one of them actually having the nerve to ruffle his hair. Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't like the looks they were giving him. He certainly didn't like the fact that they were touching him.

He was very relieved that when he opened his eyes once more, he was alone. 

He sighed. He had enjoyed his temporary freedom, even if it was in the company of that odious man and his questions. Well, Sherlock had enjoyed it up to the moment it had all turned very strange.

Moran had taken pleasure from Sherlock's rape. The man had actually enjoyed hearing the details. The thought sickened Sherlock. He had known the man was an obnoxious fool as soon as he met him, but a cruel tormentor who took pleasure from rape? Sherlock had not seen that coming.

And now he was even more concerned.

With a heavy heart, Sherlock closed his eyes again. And his thoughts instantly turned to John. He wondered if John was searching for him. He hoped he was. No. He had faith in John. John cared about him. He would not give up on him.

Sherlock just wished he could see his friend again. He had come to realise now though, the chances of that happening were very slim. Even if Mycroft did agree to it.

Maybe he was preoccupied with thoughts of John, or maybe he was just off of his game. Either way, he heard the footsteps crossing the room and chose to ignore them, assuming they belonged to the doctors or his half-brained orderlies. He clearly didn't listen properly.

And that would be to his cost.

A voice filled the lonely room. A voice that cut through Sherlock like a knife.

“They gave you a room with a view then, your captors. How nice of them.” There was a childish giggle. “Shame about the bars, but I suppose your brother can't risk you getting out again, can he?”

_No. Not possible. How could..._

Sherlock's body was chilled to the core. He was in complete shock, and clearly hearing things. Was he asleep? Had he dreamed that voice? It took him two beats to realise he was still wide awake. His eyes snapped open and he stared at his enemy, trying to keep any tiny flicker of emotion out of sight. He knew he had failed. Moriarty smirked back at him, enjoying Sherlock's shock. “Well,” he continued, pleasantly, “A view of a large fence, but still, its a view. And it is a very pretty fence. More than most prisoners can usually expect. Fences at a jail usually have scary barbed wire.” He shivered theatrically. “Not this one though, it's actually pretty and, you know, wooden.”

Sherlock had already heard enough.

He opened his mouth, ready to call out.

“Hel-” he began, but the cry was smothered by Moriarty as he rushed to Sherlock's bedside, and clamped his hand over the other man's mouth.

“Shut up,” Moriarty ordered. “I just want to talk. No need to involve, and endanger, others.” He raised an eyebrow. “Is there?”

Sherlock squirmed, hating the fact that the little bastard was that close to him. He nodded his head though, noting Moriarty's warning.

The other man moved back, and smiled happily at Sherlock. “Its good to see you again.”

Sherlock's face was murderous.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he responded, quietly.

Moriarty's eyes widened, and then, he smiled. “Now, now. Manners, Sherlock. Being locked in this room with no intelligent conversation must be so tedious for you. I thought you would be pleased to have some company.

“Not from you.”

Moriarty tutted. “My, you are moody, aren't you? Don't take your sad situation out on me, I didn't put you here. Your own stupidity and misplaced faith did that.”

Sherlock frowned. “Don't talk about things you don't know about.”

“Just pointing out the facts, Sherlock. John Watson is the reason you're here. It's not my fault you don't like the prison he and your brother put you in.”

Sherlock pulled at his restraints. He suddenly felt very exposed.

“I'm not in prison.” He retorted softly.

“Really?” Moriarty chuckled. “Funny, that. You look pretty trapped to me, my dear.”

Sherlock smirked. “I'm biding my time.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Sherlock threw back. “I'm not quite ready to leave here yet. I'm on the verge of searching out some piece of information that I can use to finish my dear, darling brother off once and for all. Once I'm satisfied that he will suffer long and hard for what he has done to me, then I will be ready to go home.” He closed his eyes. “It won't be long now.”

Moriarty, hands in his pockets, sauntered closer. “Now, that's all so interesting,” he taunted, his accent once more veering off into Irish territory. Sherlock had to grit his teeth. How the inconsistencies of the man aggravated him. "Tell me Sherlock, did you really expect me to believe one word of the shit you just came out with?” He covered his mouth, as if he were shocked at his own use of the obscenity. Then, Moriarty laughed his high, shrill laugh, apparently very amused by his own humour.

Sherlock, meanwhile, wanted to kill the man. Just blow him out of existence.

_If only that were possible._

“How did you get in here?” Sherlock enquired, with an air of indifference.

Moriarty smiled widely.

“Impressed?”

“Not at all.”

Moriarty chuckled. “I can come and go where and when I please, Sherlock.” He gestured to the door theatrically. “Even high security government facilities.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly an accomplishment, though, is it? Any simpleton could master my brother's puny security measures.”

Moriarty fixed him with an amused look.

“You didn't,” he reminded him, “Despite numerous attempts...” He shook his head, wagging a finger at Sherlock. “Does this mean your brother is smarter than you, Sherlock? That's no fun! Not if we aren't matched intellectually after all. Maybe I should have contacted Mycroft instead of you. Maybe he's a worthier opponent?” 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed, trying not to rise to his words. He knew Moriarty wanted a reaction from him, wanted to laugh at him, and Sherlock had no choice but to lay there and listen. He would not give Moriarty any added satisfaction by getting angry. Moriarty was taking great pleasure in the knowledge that the other man was helpless. He could make Sherlock listen now, and he was going to make him do just that. And he was going to enjoy it.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock opened his eyes, and stared at the other man with disdain.

“If you wait around long enough, you might just get your wish. He'll be along soon.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Sadly, he won't be. He's not due for his next visit until Tuesday afternoon.”

Sherlock blinked.

_How the heck did he know that?_

_What the hell is going on?_

_And where the fuck are those two useless orderlies that are supposed to be here to help me?_

Sherlock cleared his throat. “What do you want from me, Moriarty?”

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed. Sherlock looked quickly toward the door. Someone had to hear him. Surely someone would come bursting into the room at any moment.

He waited. Nobody came. 

_I'm on my own here._

Moriarty clasped his hands together. “Always so suspicious, Sherlock. Can't a man visit his lover without there being some dark hidden agenda?”

A shiver ran through Sherlock.

“We are not lovers.”

Moriarty looked puzzled. “We have sex.”

Sherlock snorted. “Angry, hating, animalistic urges. Nothing to do with love.”

Now, it was Moriarty's turn to roll his eyes. “Who told you that? The ever wise doctor Watson I presume? Since when has love been what you needed?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“I know what you need,” Moriarty said, lowering his voice. He was by the side of the bed, pulling down Sherlock's bed covers, his eyes never leaving the trapped man's. Sherlock, only dressed in his hospital gown, felt fully exposed as he felt Moriarty's probing gaze raking over him. A pink glow appeared in Sherlock's cheeks and he was desperate to cover himself, to stop the odious man from staring, but he could do nothing. He was defeated, and he knew it. “I always know what you want,” Moriarty purred. “You and me, Sherlock. We were made for each other.”

“No,” Sherlock replied simply. 

He tugged at his restraints again, willing them to come free, and put a stop to the shame being heaped on him. His efforts were useless. 

He was well and truly trapped in his own living hell.

Moriarty slowly slid his hands down Sherlock's chest. He sighed contently. Sherlock's insides churned. He could see how much Moriarty enjoyed touching him, owning him. Moriarty smirked, and then moved the covers down even further. He moved his hand down to Sherlock's boxers, and slid his hand inside.

Sherlock let out a strangled moan. "Stop,” he moaned, through clenched teeth. “I don't want you to to do this.” Moriarty laughed as he eased his hand back to the top of the boxers underneath the pointless gown, and he slowly began to pull them down. Sherlock wanted to thrash around, to fight back and stop this from happened to him, but it was hopeless. He was Moriarty's prisoner, completely incapable of preventing the man from doing exactly what he wanted.

_'Like before when Anderson took what he wanted.'_ A voice inside Sherlock screamed. _'It's happening again. You are letting it happen again. You are pathetic. No wonder John doesn't want you.'_

Sherlock shook his head desperately, hoping that there was some tiny realm of light inside Moriarty that would make the man have second thoughts of forcing a sexual act on him.

Who was he kidding? 

“You are perfect, Sherlock,” Moriarty drawled. “Do you know that? My perfect toy.”

Moriarty's hand slid down again, only this time he placed it between Sherlock's thighs. He found what he was looking for, and began to stroke his penis. Sherlock felt sick to his stomach.

“Please,” he whispered, squirming in shame. “Don't.”

“You want to know what I want, Sherlock?” Moriarty leered, smiling as Sherlock began to respond, just as he knew he would, to his strokes. Despite his pleas to the contrary, Moriarty knew exactly how to work Sherlock, to make him bend his body to his will. Moriarty was in control, and he loved it. He chuckled. “What I want Sherlock, I would have thought, would have been obvious to anyone, especially to you.”

Sherlock bucked into Jim's hand. “Stop it!” 

Moriarty ignored him.

“What I want is YOU, my love. You're _all_ I want.”

“Not you...” Sherlock whimpered. “I want... John...”

Moriarty laughed. “Well, where is your precious doctor now then?”

He tightened his hold and quickened his strokes, sliding the skin of Sherlock's cock up and down with one hand, changing his grip, fist to backhand, causing Sherlock to thrust harder into his enemies hand. Sherlock could feel his orgasm building, also knew he didn't want it but he could do nothing to control his body.

He _was_ a slut.

“Work with me, Sherlock,” Moriarty hissed. “We can join forces. You and me together. We'll be unstoppable. We'll be able to do anything we want, forever and ever.”

Sherlock gasped, moaning and writhing in the other man's grip.

_'I don't want this.'_

He whimpered brokenly.

_Oh fuck, it feels so good!_

He had been Anderson's whore. Now, he was Moriarty's.

_I am worthless._

“Join me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, and through gritted teeth, he ground out one word.

“Never.”

And then he was coming, painfully and against his will. Moriarty kept pumping him until he had milked Sherlock of every last drop.

As Sherlock lay there, staring up at the ceiling and panting, Moriarty began to laugh.

“Don't you get it, Sherlock?” He wiped his hands on Sherlock's sheets. “You really don't have a choice.”

Sherlock glared at him defiantly. He was humiliated, laying in his own sticky mess, and in that moment, he was beaten, but he would never stop fighting. 

“I don't want anything to do with you. You are nothing.”

Moriarty, who was in the process of pulling up Sherlock's boxers, paused. He stared down at his stubborn foe. 

“Is that right?”

Sherlock stared back, breathing hard.

Jim laughed. “You're a silly sausage, aren't you, Sherlock? Okay. I'll wait. You'll come round. Think about it, my friend. You're stay here can become very much worse very, very quickly.” He leaned closer. “Very soon, the last few days will start to feel like paradise. I'm thinking you are not making as much progress as hoped, Mr Holmes. How about a change of methods? I hear Electric Shock Treatment can be very useful in cases such as yours?”

Sherlock stared at him, trying not to display his own growing fear.

Let them play around with his brain? Mess with his reason for existing? 

_I'd rather die._

“You can't,” he said slowly. “Mycroft wouldn't allow-”

Moriarty clasped his hands together. “Oh Sherlock. I actually love how naïve you can be. Do you honestly believe your brother is in charge here? Bless you, my dear.”

He looked at Sherlock closely again. “I think I'll leave you like this. Be nice for your good Doctor and orderlies to find you in such an embarrassing state. I'll be sure to send John, the next time he texts me, your best.”

Sherlock's heart plummeted.

_Oh, God._

“You are in contact with John?”

Chuckling, Moriarty didn't respond. Instead, he walked to the door, whistling.

Sherlock pulled hard on the restraints, no longer able to hide his emotions. “Leave him alone!” He growled. “Do you hear me? Don't you lay a finger on him!” 

Jim gave him a sympathetic look.

“Think about what I said, Sherlock. The offer still stands. It would be a tragedy if your stubbornness meant somebody else ended up getting hurt, wouldn't it? Someone you really care about?” He gave him a cheerful wave. “I'll see you soon.”

And with that, he was gone.

Sherlock was left there, unable to move, trying to think through everything that had just happened. He knew how he would look when his “protectors” did honour him with a visit. Laying there, in his own cum. The humiliation burned within Sherlock. But he couldn't lay there like that until morning. He had to fetch help.

“Hey,” he called, squirming inwardly. “I need help in here!”

No one answered him. 

“Help!” He shouted at the top of his lungs.

And finally, Moran walked in, accompanied by Michael and Benjamin.

Moran regarded Sherlock with distaste.

“What is the matter, Mister Holmes?” The doctor sneered. “You will wake up the entire complex.”

He moved closer into the room and his eyes were drawn at once to the wet patch on Sherlock's covers.

“Ah,” he muttered. “Oh dear.”

Sherlock burned with shame. He lowered his eyes.

“Not a problem,” Moran told him, surprisingly kindly. He turned to Michael. “Mister Holmes seems to have had a small accident. Deal with him would you, Mike?”

Mike turned his piggy, cold eyes on Sherlock and he grinned at him, clearly amused.

“No problem, doctor.” He replied, and approached Sherlock.

“It was Moriarty.” Sherlock suddenly announced.

Moran glanced down at him. “I'm sorry?”

Sherlock frowned. Why did everyone else always have to be so slow? “Why won't you _listen?_ A man was in here only a few minutes ago. His name is Jim Moriarty and he did _this_ to me.” He pulled angrily at his restraints. “If you hurry you might still find him! Call Mycroft!”

The doctor shook his head patiently. “That really is quite impossible, Sherlock. Nobody can get inside this building. It is a government facility.” When he saw Sherlock roll his eyes at that, he leaned closer. “And besides, Mike and Ben were outside guarding your door at all times. They would not have let any unauthorised personal through your door.” He glanced at his men and they nodded eagerly in response. “You see?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Whatever you say, Moran. It doesn't change a thing. He was here. And if he got to me once, he will do it again.”

Moran was clearly not amused. “Would you like me to check the CCTV cameras for you, Sherlock. Would that help convince you?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Nothing can ever convince me that I'm wrong, Moran.” He looked up at the man, his lips twitching. “Or haven't you learnt that about me yet? Moriarty came into this room, talked to me, and molested me. It happened.”

Moran was frowning. “I believe you have imagined this Moriarty, Sherlock, or you have dreamed about him.” He glanced down again at the wet patch. “And just thinking about this man, a man I understand to be very dangerous and a criminal who is obsessed with you and you with him, made you climax. This is very concerning. Your brother will have to be told about this.”

"Good!" Sherlock retorted. “Let me talk to him.”

Moran didn't answer him. He continued on, on a tangent.

“This Moriarty, you would not even mention his name to me in our session. This also causes me worry. Perhaps, before our next meeting, we should try a new method to help you deal with the pain and the fear that you so obviously still feel. Your mind is the problem, Sherlock. I will discuss this with some colleagues and with your brother, but I will suggest that Electric Shock Treatment would help your situation, calm you and make you more open to those of us trying to treat you.” 

Sherlock didn't reply. He simply stared at Moran.

_EST._ Just like Moriarty threatened.

Moran gazed back. Sherlock could have sworn that he saw the tiniest flickers of a smile on Moran's lips. 

_Who the hell are you?_

But, in the next second, Moran looked as stern as ever and Sherlock wondered if he had imagined it. Then, Moran nodded once to Sherlock, and then withdrew from the room, leaving him alone.

Sherlock gazed at the closed door, trying to make sense of what had just transpired.

What connects Moran to any of this? Does he know Moriarty? Is Mycroft in on this too?

What is happening to me?

"I'm not crazy,” he suddenly blurted out. “And I'm not a liar! Moriarty was here!” He looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner. “You hear me! I'm not crazy!”

No one came to check on him.

He laid there, alone and lost in his own thoughts.

_John, where are you? I need you._

He hung on to one tiny thought.

_I am not going crazy._

He was known for being stubborn. Well, he would be stubborn about this. He would get through it. Electric Shock Treatment, or any other torture they decided to throw at him. 

_Something is going on here. And I will find out what it is. I'm Sherlock Holmes! I can find out anything._

He gazed up at the camera again, and this time, he winked.

“You won't win,” he told the camera, and whoever was watching. “I'll work this out. And when I do, God help you.” He balled his hands into fists, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“Do your worst.”

TBC


	11. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, treat for you all :) This is a shorter chapter so I thought I'd get it posted quickly. Next one is an important one too!

Sherlock was lying on his bed, his eyes once more fixed to the ceiling. A thousand thoughts were circling through his brain, nothing new for him of course, but this time, he was having problems focusing on any of them. And he had no idea why. It was disconcerting for him. He needed to _know,_ needed to be in control of the situation. Especially in a building where he was anything but in control. He was a prisoner, trapped and helpless, and it scared him. Despite his huge intellect, in this place, in this very moment, he was as good as clueless. And he didn't like the realisation of that one little bit.

He closed his eyes, trying to disappear, to be able to go somewhere else, somewhere happy.

But, as usual, his thoughts betrayed him. 

Sherlock's musings turned back to Moriarty and Moran, against his own wishes. But what was the point thinking about anything else? Only the here and now mattered.

_'John would tut and tell me to fill my mind with useless trivia. Maybe he would be right.'_

Despite his situation, Sherlock couldn't help but allow a small smile. John still had that effect on him.

_'The John effect.'_

The tiny smile faded from Sherlock's face. He knew what John would say to him right now.

_"Get a grip on yourself, Sherlock. Figure this out. And trust in yourself. You CAN do this."_

Sherlock pursed his lips together. No more doubts. He knew Moriarty had visited him earlier, it didn't matter what that idiot Moran's opinions were. Since when did Sherlock care about him anyway? The man must have been either lying, or stupid, and Sherlock wasn't really that bothered which option turned out to be true. Sherlock _knew_ he hadn't imagined Jim. After all, how can you imagine a man to such lengths when you have so little imagination in the first place? Only facts mattered to Sherlock, and the fact of the matter was that the bastard had spoken, had actually _touched_ him. It was no concern at all to Sherlock what Moran had said, or did, or whatever else he tried to do to convince his “patient” that he was losing his mind. Sherlock knew better. Moriarty had been there and, knowing Jim, he would eventually be back. And, thanks to Moran and his gormless “assistants,” Sherlock would once again be at his mercy when that moment came. 

Moriarty could do whatever he wanted, and there was not one thing Sherlock could do to stop him.

"Where the hell are you, Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered angrily.

Mycroft was, typically, no help to him whatsoever. He had stuck Sherlock in this Asylum hell-hole, and then had apparently left him all alone to suffer. His brother had been happy to visit when Sherlock didn't _want_ to see him, oh yes, but now, now that Sherlock could actually use his brother's help, he was conspicuous in his absence. How typical. Sherlock was certain that, despite Mycroft liking to act the complete opposite, his brother did actually have some adequate intelligence, when it suited him of course. If Sherlock could just explain to his brother, get a hold of him and tell him the truth, then perhaps Sherlock could make him reconsider, make Mycroft see that all was not right here. A government facility where criminal masterminds could just walk in and out in the leisure? Hospitals where Electric Shock Therapy was a normal method of treatment? A doctor who was entertained by hearing stories by rape victims? Mycroft could not have known what he was getting Sherlock into. Sherlock knew his brother was an obnoxious, arrogant, all-knowing pillock, but sadistic and cruel? No. He wouldn't knowingly be that. He would have respect, for their mother at least. Mycroft would believe him. He was clever, there was no question of that. The question that remained for Sherlock though was whether Mycroft would actually be able to care. His brother was behaving in such an odd manner that it made him impossible to read. 

It was as if Sherlock was just an awkward, embarrassing secret, and he needed to be kept out of the way at all costs. 

Sherlock pursed his lips together. Did Mycroft actually care in the slightest about his well fare? Clearly not, or he wouldn't have put him in a place like this in the first place, at the mercy of an untrustworthy mad man like Moran.

_'And he wouldn't have kept the one man away who could actually help me.'_

John. Sherlock balled his hands in fists, flinching from the pain this caused thanks to his now too-tight restraints. John would have believed him. Of course he would. John was the what he needed, the only one he could trust. If only he could get a message to him, somehow. He considered the way Moriarty had taunted him with news of John, how the bastard was even receiving texts from him. Whether true or not, the thought made Sherlock's insides churn. He knew what Moriarty's plan would be, it didn't take too much deducing. Jim knew harming John was the easiest way to get to Sherlock, and Sherlock was very aware that he would take great pleasure in hurting John, even killing him, and then telling him, in great detail, exactly what had happened. And what could Sherlock do about it? Just lie there, on that bed, and listen as Moriarty mocked and taunted him?

What good was Sherlock now? 

He couldn't help John, but maybe John could help himself.

_'Moriarty underestimates John. He doesn't know him. He will learn.'_

Sherlock smiled knowingly.

_I have faith in John._

At that moment, light flooded the room, causing Sherlock to blink in discomfort.

_'What now?'_

Then, the door suddenly flew open, and Moran entered, striding determinedly up to Sherlock's bed. Sherlock instantly pulled at his restraints, irritated by his own inability to defend himself. Moran smiled down at him pompously, and Sherlock glared back, holding the doctor's gaze. Sherlock eyes fixated on Moran's left hand then, or, more importantly, on the needle the man was clutching. Sherlock felt the panic coursing through him and when he saw the smile increasing on Moran's face, he knew his own expression had betrayed his fear. As Moran leaned over him, Sherlock began to struggle futility, and cried out for help, though he knew there was no one who would come to his aid. He heard Moran barking an order and suddenly Michael came into his field of vision, placing a sweaty hand over Sherlock's mouth, stifling his cry.

Sherlock could only lay there, breathing heavily, gazing up at Moran, a silent plea in his eyes.

Moran smiled. “This is for your own good, Mister Holmes,” Moran told him and then, with no further warning, he plunged the needle into Sherlock's arm and injected the unknown liquid into his arm. The pain was sudden and, due to the largeness of the needle, agonising. Sherlock cried out, and bit down on Michael's hand in his shock. Michael swore and pulled his now bloodied hand away. He stared at Sherlock with obvious fury, and then raised his hand and struck the helpless man hard across the face. Sherlock grimaced from the blow and then fixed the angry thug with an unwavering glare.

_'If only looks really could kill.'_

Another voice suddenly spoke up, as if out of nowhere. It sounded chilling, so angry and spiteful.

_“Don't touch him again!”_

Sherlock froze.

There was no doubting that voice. The irritating Irish twang was a dead giveaway.

Sherlock strained to look past Moran. It was a difficult effort as, not only was he still hardly able to move, his vision was also becoming increasingly cloudy.

Moriarty was still speaking to Michael, and he was not in the least bit happy.

“In case you missed that, _you_ don't get to lay a hand on him ever again. You have no right, a nobody like you. Do you understand me?”

Michael, though, didn't even react. It was as if he was ignoring Moriarty. He just continued to glower cruelly at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinked, trying to clear his own sight.

“What's going on?” He blurted out. “Tell me!”

Moriarty moved forward, hands deep in his pockets, sauntering toward Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn't hold back a moment longer. Addressing Moran, the restrained man snapped, desperation in his tone; “Moriarty is right there! Look! Can't you see him? _Hear_ him?” He tugged on the straps, willing them to come free. “Look man!” 

Moran gave Sherlock a look of disdain, and then glanced behind him. He looked right through Moriarty, as if the man wasn't there. Sherlock stared, dread gripping him.

“I don't understand,” Sherlock muttered, trying to clear his head. What was happening to him? “How can you not see him?” Sherlock tried again, more softly.

Moriarty laughed. Sherlock felt sick.

Still, Moran did not react. No one did. They acted as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on at all.

And Sherlock's panic was intensifying by the second.

He flinched when Moran put a “calming” hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock, I promise you that there is no one there. It's just as, and we want to help you. I need you to believe me. You are merely disorientated by the injection I have given you.”

“What did you give me?” Sherlock enquired quickly. He was having problems keeping his eyes open. Moran sounded so far away now.

“Merely something to help you rest, Sherlock. I've given you the same drug numerous times since you arrived here. It will make you feel better." It was such a struggle to concentrate, Sherlock had to strain his ears to pick up the doctor's next words. "You must not distress yourself. Nothing is going to hurt you.” His tone was so soothing, Sherlock was fading fast. “Sleep now. We will talk again in the morning.”

Sherlock was heading for the darkness. There was nothing he could do. 

He forced himself to look beyond Moran one last time.

Moriarty smiled at him, and waved.

Sherlock let out a small whimper. Was Moran telling the truth? Was Moriarty really not there? Was Moran lying? Why would he lie?

_Why can't I see the answer?_

Moran and Michael were so far away now. Sherlock was going away. The light was fading.

_Why can't I deduce? Why can't I THINK? What's wrong with me?_

Sherlock opened his eyes again. And moaned. Moran had disappeared and Moriarty was there now, leaning over Sherlock, his leering face right in front of him.

And, the bastard was smirking.

Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's chin and forced him to keep looking at him, helping him to focus. Sherlock couldn't look away. “I'm real.” Jim hissed. “You know I'm real, don't you, my dear? Trust your instincts. You are mine, you belong to me. The quicker you realise that, the better. You want to leave here, Sherlock? You know what you have to do, right?”

Sherlock tried to shake his head but he couldn't move. 

He couldn't see Moriarty any longer. 

He had lost the battle. A moment later, he was lost in heavy, drug induced, sleep.

XXX

Moriarty clasped his hands together. “Very good,” he announced, and then leaned closer, kissing Sherlock's forehead gently. “Sweet dreams, my love.” 

Moriarty whirled round, all pretence gone, and immediately made eye contact with Michael.

“Very nicely done,” he told the other man. “That was a good slap.”

Michael smiled and nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Sir.”

Moran edged closer. “Join me in my office, Jim? We don't know how deeply he is sleeping, after all.”

Moriarty shrugged. “Lead the way, Sebastian.”

He gave the still form of Sherlock one last glance, smiling gently, and then exited the room quickly, Moran and Michael right behind him. Sebastian gestured to Michael to stay by the door and the other man hurried to move into position. Then, with a knowing look, Moriarty moved ahead of Moran, and walked thought the open door leading to the Colonel's office.

Once they had both entered, Moran closed the door behind them, and then gestured towards a chair. Jim shook his head.

“I can't stop, Sebastian,” he told him. “I have an appointment with another doctor.”

Moran smiled. “How do you feel we are progressing so far? Are you happy?”

Moriarty chuckled. “Oh yes. All going to plan.” He shot Moran a knowing look. “See that everything continues to move in the same direction, won't you, Sebastian?”

Moran seemed to hesitate for a second. “I was wondering,” he began, cautiously; “Should we be trying to persuade Sherlock that he imagined you? Won't that have a bad effect on the end game? We do after all need Sherlock to believe that what he is seeing is the truth.”

Moriarty didn't speak at once. Moran frowned, and glanced down at his feet. “Please don't think I’m doubting your instructions, Jim.”

“Oh Sebastian,” Moriarty chuckled, with one amused shake of his head. “If I thought that, I'd have given the order for you to be shot through that window by now.”

Moran looked up sharply.

Moriarty threw back his head and laughed. 

The doctor's lips twitched.

“Just my little joke,” Moriarty told him.

Moran smiled darkly. “Very amusing, Sir.”

Moriarty stepped closer. “You don't know Sherlock like I do, Seb.” Jim told him, “We need him confused, we need him to doubt himself. His intelligence _almost_ matches my own, you know? He will work everything out if we give him a half a chance. Keep him muddled, and this might just work out.”

Moran nodded. “The drug was only in the experimental stages when I stole it. I have no idea what side effects he could have, whether the hallucinations will even convince him-”

Moriarty held up a hand, silencing the other man. “I have faith in you, old friend. And the drug you brought to me. The animals we tested it on before Sherlock, their reactions were shocking, horrific and incredibly entertaining.” His eyes were shining, as his voice went up an octave in his excitement. “I can't wait to see what will happen to Sherlock.” He glanced at his watch. “It's all so exciting!" He clasped his hands together. "And look at the time! I have to go right now. Just be ready for my text, my dear.”

Sebastian inclined his head. “Everything will be prepared. One treatment should speed up the effects of the drug. Especially as the drug has been being injected for over seven days now.” He smiled nastily. “The great Sherlock Holmes is about to get the shock off his life.”

Moriarty smirked. “I look forward to it.” He moved to the door. “Wait to hear from me. And make sure you keep an eye on Sherlock for me. He can be so..." He paused, looking for the right word... "Unpredictable when he wants to be. Even for me.”

And then, Moriarty sauntered out of the door, letting it slam behind him. 

Moran stared at the closed door for a moment, before breathing out a heavy sigh, and covered his face with his hands. He spent a couple of moments to collect his thoughts, and then got carefully to his feet. He pulled open the door, and left the room.

He walked down the corridor, making his way back to Sherlock's room. He waved his hand at Michael, who looked at him curiously, then stepped away from the door, obeying orders with question, exactly as he was paid to do. Moran unlocked the door and walked in, closing it quietly behind him. 

He gazed down upon the sleeping Sherlock, turning his head to one side and regarding the other man with something akin to jealousy. He moved closer, tiptoeing across the room, and then placed his hands around Sherlock's throat, and began to squeeze.

Sherlock, though didn't awaken, began to struggle and writhe in his sleep, and as Moran tightened his grip, the defenceless man began to wheeze, and his skin paled to a blueish colour.

Moran, teeth gritted, leaned in. “What's so special about you?” He hissed. “Why is he even bothering?”

He kept up the pressure for a two seconds longer, than released his hold.

“No,” he whispered in Sherlock's ear. “That would be far too quick an ending for you. I want to watch you suffer first, Mister Holmes.”

He stepped away from Sherlock, who was already beginning to breath more easily.

Moran walked to the door and opened it, not even giving Sherlock a backwards glance. 

Sherlock slept on, unaware of how close he had just come to death. Or, what horrors were waiting for him just around the corner.

Colonel Moran had never felt power like it. And he loved it.

Power was what Moriarty had promised him. And he was delivering.

Moran nodded to Michael, who was looking him up and down.

“Everything okay?” He enquired and Moran smiled.

“Peachy,” he replied. He smiled. “Make sure everything is prepared in the operating room, we don't want to keep Mister Moriarty waiting, when the time comes.”

“Yes, Sir,” Michael replied, and then hurried away, leaving Moran to gaze after him.

“I want this to be memorable for us all,” Moran muttered, more to himself, and with one last glance towards Sherlock's door, a dark smile spread across his sneering face.

“I can't wait.”

TBC


	12. Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi again guys.
> 
> Thanks for all the supportive comments, you guys really help me keep going :)
> 
> This is a dark one. Things are very bleak in this chapter, just to warn you. Hope you still enjoy it though... and please keep the comments coming :)

Lestrade and John had been at the meeting place for ten minutes, and Lestrade had been checking his watch constantly throughout the last two, making John even more nervous than he already was. They had abandoned their car some distance away and had made the rest of the short, pitch black journey on foot. It hadn't taken them long to arrive at the address Moriarty had told them. They now found themselves standing outside the unwelcoming, deserted building. Despite their impatience, they were also both apprehensive about what they were about to walk into. They were equally certain that this was one big trap, but what could they do? Moriarty was the only lead they had, their one and only hope of finding Sherlock, and for their friend's sake, they had to at least try.

“Lets get inside,” Lestrade whispered. “I don't like hanging around out here.”

“Could be worse inside,” John replied. “They could be waiting for us in there, waiting to-”

Lestrade frowned at him. "Waiting to do what?"

John glared. "How should I know?"

With a sigh, Lestrade jerked his head. “Look John, we both know this is very likely to be a trap, especially considering what you tell me about this Moriarty character. Heck, I've heard the name enough these past few months, and never connected to anything good." He shook his head dejectedly. "But we don't have a lot of choice, do we?”

John glanced away. He knew Lestrade was right, but that didn't ease his feeling of worry. Nothing would. But he had to go through with this. He owed it to Sherlock. “Alright then, lets get this over with.”

Lestrade took a deep breath, and then pushed open the large door slightly, allowing just enough room to gain him entry and to check that the coast was clear, before holding the door open for his companion. With only a torch to light their way, they then made slow progress, feeling their way down a short corridor. They could just about make out the outline of a doorway a few meters away. The torch provided very little light; everything around them was dark, cold and damp.

John grunted in pain when he managed to stumble right into a chair blocking his way, sending it crashing to the ground. The sudden noise filled the area at once, and he swore loudly, managing to startle Lestrade in the process.

“Careful!” the inspector hissed.

“Sorry!” John threw back, irritated. He reached out with his hand, feeling the wooden door in front of him. Holding his breath, he pushed hard on the door, and it swung open with a disconcerting creek. John grimaced; the room beyond the passageway was just as dark. Knowing it was far too late to go any way but onwards, John moved forward, Lestrade right behind him, shining the torch to attempt to light their progress as much as he could.

They had only just both entered this room when they heard a quiet chuckle, followed by a clicking sound from behind them, causing them both to stop in surprise. In the next second an unexpected, brilliant glow illuminated the room, making them grimace from the sudden, painful brightness.

Slowly, growing accustomed to the light, they moved further into the large warehouse they had found themselves in, and then stopped abruptly when they saw that they were not alone.

Moriarty was standing in the centre of the room, his hands plunged deeply into his pockets. He was smiling widely, his eyes twinkling as he stared at John.

“So good to see you again, Doctor Watson!” He greeted John warmly. “It's been a while, hasn't it? How have you been?” 

John glared back, hatred radiating from him as he took in the sight of the man he despised. “What do you want, Moriarty?”

Jim blinked. “That's sad." He complained. "No time for small talk? Where are your manners, Doctor?”

Pulling his revolver out of his jacket pocket, John aimed the weapon directly at Moriarty's face. “My patience ran out a few weeks ago,” he snapped. “The way I see it, you've got five minutes to convince me not to shoot you where you stand,” he added, his eyes narrowing. “I've had a really bad time, and it would make me feel better. So, go right ahead and 'talk'.”

Moriarty stared at John, and then threw back his head, laughing loudly. “I'm so sorry to laugh at you doctor, but that was actually really funny. And a little bit pathetic." Jim took a step forward. "We both know that you aren't going to shoot me."

John's gun hand quivered. "Oh? Why's that?"

Jim tutted. "Well, the first reason is because you know that I didn't come here alone. That wouldn't have made much sense, now would it?" He gestured to the gun. "You should put _your_ gun down in five _seconds_ , or the five snipers aiming their own guns at you right now will kill your inspector friend here.” As John watched, five little red lights appeared on Lestrade's chest, proving Moriarty's words. John flinched, screwing his eyes shut in despair. _He should have known._ Moriarty let out a loud theatrical sigh. “The other reason is that I asked you here out of the kindness of my heart, and shooting me would be pretty damn rude in you think about it."

John actually laughed. "What heart?"

Jim wagged his finger warningly. "That is a fair point, but be that as it may, I do want to help you, John, and poor Sherlock too. That's why I came here. But I won't help if I'm staring down the barrel of your silly little revolver. Makes me nervous." He trembled mockingly, and then lowered his voice. "Am I making myself clear enough for you, John?” 

John pursed his lips together. He knew he had cards to play. He slipped his gun regretfully back into his jacket pocket, and then resumed his glaring at Moriarty.

“Better!” Moriarty strode forward, and then smirked when John recoiled. “Don't be scared of me." He whispered, and then held out his hand. "Here you go,” he said pleasantly, offering John a crumpled up piece of paper. 

John glanced at the paper, hesitating.

Jim rolled his eyes. “What do you think?” he snapped, gesturing impatiently. “That I'd give you exploding paper?”

“I wouldn't put anything past you.”

“Thank you.” Jim grinned. “But you're wasting time.”

John snatched the rolled up note from Jim's grasp. Lestrade moved to stand beside him, using the torch to light up the note. They could just make it what it contained, and what they read made them exchange worried glances. It was the address of a government facility in Surrey. 

“That's where they are holding Sherlock,” Jim continued. “Trust me, the building is a fortress.” He glanced from Lestrade, and then back to John. “Got to tell you, Johnny boy, it's a good job you have the law on your side! I'm sure the good inspector here can find out the access codes for you quite easily. Just don't let The Ice Man find out what you're up to.” He giggled childishly. “If he does, I'm guessing you'd find yourself in Outer Mongolia quicker than you can say ‘jail break.’” He clapped his hands gleefully.

Lestrade frowned and threw John another sideways glance. The doctor knew why. Lestrade had figured out that their “source” was completely out of his mind.

The only thing he had yet to work out was just how dangerous James Moriarty was. John had found _that_ out the hard way.

“Why would you do this?” he asked, suspiciously. "Why would you help us?"

“Maybe I don't want Sherlock imprisoned any more than you do,” Jim retorted. “Maybe I'm bored without him.”

“What is it that you want, Moriarty?” John said at once, disregarding Jim's reply. "What do you get out of this?"

“What do I want, John?” Moriarty echoed, his eyes twinkling. “Why are you so quick to assume that I'm not helping you out of the goodness of my heart? Sherlock and I have become quite close these past few months. Maybe I genuinely want to help him?”

John chuckled coldly. "You expect me to believe that?"

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "Do you think it matters to me what you believe?" He was amused. “You know, as much as I would love to stand here and catch up, you really should get a move on. Sherlock is in quite a state.” He placed his head on the side. "They have some very interesting methods at that hospital. I do sometimes wonder if they have their patients best interests at heart..."

That hit John like a brick. He glared daggers at the taunting man, his hands balled into fists at his side. Lestrade was very aware that his companion would very happily murder the other man right in that moment, given the opportunity.

“John,” the inspector warned, speaking softly, not looking at Jim. “Don't make matters worse.”

John continued to eyeball Moriarty.

“If you've hurt him, I'll-”

“Touching,” Moriarty smirked. “I'm not the one who took him, am I Doctor Watson? Or who betrayed him, now I come to think of it.”

John's face flushed.

Moriarty shrugged. “Jealousy is such an evil vice, doctor. But seriously, you really _had_ better hurry, Johnny. You'll never get in that facility during the day and Sherlock might not last too many more nights...” He leaned closer, slipping back into the Irish accent effortlessly. “If you get my meaning.”

“John,” Lestrade whispered. “We have to go now. We have an address, we know where Sherlock is. I don't care what this freak-”

Moriarty let out a hurt squeak. Lestrade ignored him.

“-I don't know why he has given us this information or what his game is, but it doesn't actually matter. Sherlock is waiting for us. Lets go.”

John was breathing hard. With one last hateful glare, he turned quickly, marching toward the open door. Lestrade turned, giving Moriarty one last cold stare of his own.

Jim gave him a little wave. "Good luck!"

Lestrade didn't bother to reply. He went after John quickly, slamming the door behind him.

Moriarty stayed there for a moment. After a few seconds, he allowed himself a small triumphant punch in the air.

_Perfect._

XXX

Sherlock's situation had not improved.

He had been woken early, and quickly unstrapped, finding himself being dragged out of his room. He hadn't bothered to fight this time, he was just too weak. He was being taken along the corridor, being supported by the two gormless orderlies. He knew where he was being taken, and why. He was to receive his "treatment," the Electric Shock Therapy Moran had threatened him with the day before. All Sherlock could think about was what had happened the previous night. He knew Moriarty had been in his room, knew he had touched him, taunted him. Assaulted him. And he also knew Moran had lied. All he didn't know was why. 

Why was all this happening?

And where was it leading too?

They took Sherlock into another small room, which was filled with ominous-looking equipment and a bed in the centre. Sherlock blanched at it. Whatever was about to happen, he knew he neither needed nor wanted it. 

He was led swiftly to the bed. That was when he noticed the monitor in the corner of the room, and his eyes lit up. He had seen a screen like it in Moran's office and he didn't take him long to deduce why. It was linked to CCTV, very probably the CCTV camera in his own room. Sherlock knew that it was time he found out answers for himself, and brought this pantomime to and end. And he would start with discovering exactly happened in his room the night before. 

Wrestling his way free from the men's hold, Sherlock dived for the monitor. The men swore at him, grabbing for him to drag him away. But they suddenly stopped. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and saw that the orderlies were now standing back from him and the reason was clear. Moran had appeared in the doorway, staring at Sherlock with bemused interest.

“Is something wrong, Sherlock?” He asked, politely. 

Sherlock was turning knobs on the front of the monitor. “It'll all be clear in a moment,” Sherlock responded. “You'll all see.”

The monitor quickly flashed into life and footage appeared. Sherlock hit a few buttons on the keyboard next to the screen, until it showed the footage from the night before. He then stood back to watch and trembled slightly when he saw himself lying in his bed, the familiar white walls surrounding him, suffocating him. No wonder he felt so sick, so weak. He couldn't breathe in that room, and he knew that was the idea. He kept watching, breathing loudly, as the footage went on, and growing impatient, he hit the fast forward button. There was nothing. Just him sleeping.

“This isn't last night,” he barked. “This is wrong!”

Moran sighed from behind him. “You can clearly see yesterday's date in the top right hand corner, Sherlock. Your an intelligent man. You know that is the correct footage.”

Sherlock whimpered softly. He continued to run the recording on, shaking his head in disbelief. It was just him sound asleep, with the odd visits from the orderlies and one from Moran to check up on him. No Moriarty. No arguments. There was nothing.

Sherlock could not believe what he was seeing. 

“Moriarty was there last night,” he announced. “I know he was.”

“Sherlock-” Moran began but Sherlock whirled round, unable to contain his fury. Staring into Moran's smirking face, he then began to back away away from the other man.

“ _Stay away from me_!” he shouted. “You've tampered with this footage! Moriarty was there last night, I know he was. You've done something to this video, altered it somehow!”

“Don't be afraid,” Moran said softly. “You are panicking, Sherlock. This treatment can cause anxiety and fear beforehand; it’s very common. It will pass.”

“Don't talk to me like I'm a fucking idiot!” Sherlock shouted.

Moran held up a hand, stopping the orderlies from rushing at the furious man. He was clearly trying to calm Sherlock, though he also seemed to know that he was fighting a losing battle.

“You have a complaint to make to me, Sherlock?” he stated, after a brief pause.

Sherlock stared at the other man incredulously. _A complaint?_ Then, he threw back his head and laughed grimly.

“You could say that!”

Moran gestured for him to continue. “Well? What is the problem?”

“Well, firstly, you are about to torture me-”

“ _Treat_ you, Mister Holmes-”

“And secondly, Jim Moriarty was in my room last night. He abused me sexually. You didn't just know he was there, it's more than that." Sherlock's eyes widened. "You let him do it.” He looked back at the computer monitor. "And now you're covering it up."

“There was no one in your room, Sherlock." Moran continued, speaking as though to a small child. "You simply had a bad dream. Quite natural in your situation. Look at the camera evidence for all the proof you need.”

“You're lying!” Sherlock breathed, his eyes like saucers. “Why are you doing this?

“Doing what?” Moran was amused. “You think it's all a big conspiracy against you? You think you are that important? The whole world revolves around you, does it?”

Sherlock grabbed for the doctor, but was restrained by the orderlies. He was forced to his knees and held there, unable to struggle free.

“You're lying to me! You've tampered with this footage,” he accused Moran. “I don't know why, but you did it. You want me to believe I imagined it, don't you?” He wrenched an arm free from the men holding him, only to be grabbed roughly once more. "Why?"

Moran frowned at him. “Mister Holmes, you need to calm down.”

“Don't fucking tell me to calm down!” Sherlock stormed. “You're in on this! Whatever _this_ is. You and Moriarty are in it together. What the hell do you want from me?”

Something flashed over Moran's face, and in that moment, his whole demeanour changed.

He chuckled softly.

“What do I want from you?”

He shook his head, dropping the act he had perfected, and a cruel smile spread across his lips. He knelt down beside the still struggling Sherlock, grabbing his hair painfully and ripping his head back.

“I want to see you broken, Sherlock. Just liked you were with Anderson.”

Sherlock stared at Moran as panic began to set in.

“Who are you?” Sherlock demanded. “Whatever this is all about, just stop it!”

Moran chuckled. “Far too late for that, Holmes.” He released his hold on Sherlock then, and turned his attention to the orderlies. “Strap him down, if you would please, gentlemen.”

The two men hurled Sherlock up off of the floor and dragged him over to the sinister machine. They forced him down and strapped him on to the bed. He couldn't move a muscle. They then proceeded to link him up to the machine. When they were done, they stood back, and nodded to Moran.

Moran was by the machine's controls, his finger poised to turn the required lever that would switch the machine on.

Sherlock was breathing hard.

“Wait,” he appealed to Moran. “Don't do this.”

“It's for your own good, Sherlock,” Moran told him. “Trust me, I'm a doctor.”

He turned the switch.

Sherlock began to scream soundlessly as the agonising waves hit him and his head seemed to swell to three times its usual size. His whole body began to convulse as the expected seizure slowly took hold.

It hurt. It hurt so damned much.

_'This is what dying must feel like.'_

And then, as quickly as the pain had engulfed him, it was gone. Sherlock's eyes struggled to focus on the ceiling above him; everything was blurry and he knew that he was slipping. His head was still pounding from the punishment he had just been put through, and he knew he couldn't fight the darkness for long.

Moran smiled as he watched his victim's suffering. It felt so good, watching the arrogant man being tormented before his very eyes. In truth, Moran would have preferred just to fry Holmes' brain and turn him into a vegetable but Moriarty's instructions were clear. Moran was only to shock Sherlock for as long as it was necessary for their plans. It was imperative that Sherlock's mind stayed in tact. 

Not that Moran couldn't have some fun in the meantime. 

He turned the switch once again, his face breaking out into a huge smile as Sherlock's whole body began to convulse. Very soon, his screams of agony filled the room.

Moran watched him happily. Sherlock Holmes had not even begun to suffer yet. Moriarty had a game to play. 

His mobile phone buzzed, bringing the corrupt doctor out of his musings. He turned the switch once more, and then turned away from Sherlock and the delighted looking orderlies to read the message he had just received.

 _They are on their way. We better be ready, Moran. M._

Moran's smile widened. “Don't you worry, Sir,” he muttered, out loud. “I'm ready.”

He looked back over at the now still figure on the bed in front of him. Sherlock Holmes was unconscious, his chest rising and falling gently. 

“Show time.”

XXX

The pain had gone. That was the first thing he was aware of.

Sherlock blinked, staring up at the ever familiar white. Was he back in his room? He moaned loudly.

_'Why is my head killing me? What happened to me? Why can't I remember?'_

He opened his eyes fully, and reacted at once from the pain this caused him. The room was too bright; it hurt. He remembered feeling that horrendous pain in his head, and he remembered hearing that vicious laughter. He'd been strapped down too, completely helpless as _something_ had been done to him. He tested his arms and discovered that that was no longer the case. He then felt his sore wrists, and rubbed at them, trying to get the blood circulating once more.

He sat up gingerly, still trying to think through the agonising throbbing in his head. He was getting flashbacks now, images of Moran's eyes boring into him, the jeers and laughter becoming intense once more. Then, he knew. That machine. The therapy. Moran turning on him. They'd given him electric shocks, just as they had threatened to do. Barbaric bastards. This was no hospital. And they certainly didn't want to make him "better". Who did they think they were? Sherlock could feel the anger bubbling up inside of him. He'd had enough of being mistreated by Moran and his grunts. No more. He was Sherlock Holmes; he deserved better than this.

And if this whole ordeal was due to his brother, well, then Mycroft would pay too. _Ten fold._

Just as Sherlock made his way painfully to the door and reached for the handle, it swung open. He took a step back, uncertain.

And saw the two orderlies barring his way.

Sherlock glared angrily at the smirking men before him.

“Where you off to then?” the first man inquired, while the other chuckled.

“Get out of my way.” Sherlock snapped. These men worked for Moran. They were clearly as fake as their phony doctor. “I can find my own way back to my room, thank you.”

“Is that right?” one of the men taunted, smirking nastily.

The two men were advancing on Sherlock, forcing him backwards. He felt like a wild animal, trapped and helpless. He searched the men's faces, hoping for some sign, any sign, that there was a way out of this.

He found none.

“What do you want?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. He failed.

“Don't be afraid, Mister Holmes,” the first man said, smirking. “We're here because of you. We're cops.”

Sherlock blinked.

“What? But you work here..?”

“Undercover cops, Sherlock,” the second man continued. “Sent here to keep an eye on you. The DI gave us this assignment; got his orders from the very top...”

“Assignment?” Sherlock repeated. “To find me?”

The first man laughed. “Oh no. To keep you out of trouble.”

Sherlock's heart sank. 

_No more. Everything hurt. He wanted to go back to bed. Why was the room still spinning?_

“You're Lestrade's men?” he offered, looking beyond them at the open door. “Well, where is he? What the hell is going on here?”

The two men exchanged glances. Sherlock caught the look between them and it confused him.

_'Are they smirking at each other?_

_Do I amuse them?_

_What is happening?'_

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm his shaky nerves, and then gestured to the door.

“Well, if you work for Lestrade, then tell him to come and get me out of here,” he barked “Otherwise, can the two of you just leave me alone?”

“Aww,” the larger one guffawed, talking to his friend. “I think we've upset him.”

His friend laughed. “Lestrade was right about him. And Anderson. Everything they said about the freak is true.”

Sherlock paled. Anderson? What did this have to do with Anderson?

He recoiled further.

They followed him. The first man winked to his companion. “Hey, wanna have some fun?”

They were moving ever closer, backing him against the wall. He was trapped.

“Keep away,” he warned them, but he knew they were in control.

And they were looking at him with something akin to lust.

His insides knotted. 

“He's got a pretty mouth, hasn't he, Ben?” Sherlock heard one of the men snickering.

_Shit._

The shorter man snorted with laughter. Sherlock squirmed, embarrassed. This was all a big joke to them. He was nothing but a plaything. 

“He really has,” the tall one agreed. “Why don't we make him use it, Mike?”

Sherlock's heart sank. 

He went to barge past them but they were much stronger than he was, thanks to his weakened state. The first man took hold of Sherlock as he tried to go round him, struck him harshly across the face and then pushed him down to the ground. Sherlock then curled up into a ball as both men proceeded to kick him in the ribs.

Finally, they grew tired.

Sherlock's stomach churned at the sound of their mocking laughter.

He was nothing to them.

_'Why shouldn't they treat me like a whore? They work for Lestrade. He probably encourages them to laugh at me, ridicule me. They all hate me, all know what Anderson did to me. I'm not worth any more than this.'_

From his position on the floor, Sherlock could only watch as a pair of boots edged closer, and stopped just in front of his face. Strong hands entered his vision as they wrapped around his head, lifting it up. He looked up defiantly, and his heart all but stopped when he saw the large, swollen cock appear in front of him. All thoughts of escaping left his mind, and his stomach contracted in fear at the thought of what the two men were going to make him do. That helpless fear must have been displayed clearly in his eyes, as the two cops, or whatever they were, grew ever more excited, and hooted with laughter. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock steeled himself. History was not about to repeat itself. He would put up more of a fight this time. He stared up at his tormentors, mustering up his last show of will power.

“Get that thing out of my face,” he hissed. “Or I'll bite it off.”

There was a moment’s silence. Then, a bark of laughter issued from the man directly in front of him, ending the momentary quiet, and breaking apart Sherlock's hastily railed show of defiance at the same time.

"Look at him, the little bitch!” Mike exclaimed. “He thinks he can talk to us like that?”

Ben put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “What's okay for Anderson is too good for the likes of us? Officer’s meat, only? Is that what he thinks?”

Mike smirked. “Well, he's mistaken.” He turned back to Sherlock, leering down at him cruelly. “Come on now, _Mister Holmes,_ we've heard so much from the Guv about you. How you just took it from Anderson as he stuck it to you good and proper. Lestrade made it sound like you'd bend over for anyone. So, be a good little cocksucker for me and my mate here, and open wide." 

Sherlock didn't respond. He merely continued to glare at them.

_'This is thanks to Lestrade. He did this to me._

_Moran and Lestrade are working together against me. That must be the answer._

_My head hurts._

_He turned John against me too. I have nothing and nobody._

_I hate them all.'_

"No," he finally whimpered brokenly.

"Sorry, wrong answer." Mike slammed his fist into Sherlock's gut, forcing the air out of his lungs and eliciting a cry of pain. In that moment, the triumphant man shoved his cock down Sherlock's throat. Before Sherlock could follow through on his threat to bite down, Ben grabbed his arms and held him steady, hissing in his ear, “Bite him, and I'll throttle you.” 

Sherlock whimpered in response. He could only kneel there, helpless, as Mike continued to pump in and out of his throat. 

“That's right,” Michael murmured. “Suck me. That's so fucking good.”

Sherlock tried to pull away, tried to fight back, but it was useless. Mike had hold of his hair, yanking it tightly and thrusting his hips, taking full pleasure in the mouth he now so viciously invaded.

All coherent thoughts rushed out of Sherlock's mind as he was cruelly assaulted. He felt the urge to vomit and desperately forced it back, unsure how they would react to such an insult. He whined pitifully when Mike began to attempt a deeper thrusting that sometimes hit the back of Sherlock's throat.

Sherlock wanted to die. Then and there. He had no fight left in him.

Just as he felt the man's thrusts growing more erratic, just as he began to prepare himself, suddenly Sherlock was aware that someone else had entered the room. He heard Mike yell out in pain, and then the man's dick was withdrawn from his mouth, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. He then heard Ben yelling and cursing in anger and he glanced up nervously to see both men being bundled out of the room, though he couldn't see by whom. He lay there, defeated, his throat sore, eyes trying to focus on the table beside him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked up. Moriarty was kneeling beside him, his face flushed and strangely concerned. 

“Are you all right, Sherlock?”

The other man let out a low sob as he collapsed onto the ground. He closed his eyes as the tears began to cascade down his face. 

“I thought you didn't like it when other people played with your toys, Jim?”

Jim sighed, and then placed a comforting hand on Sherlock's back.

“They were told not to touch you. I am responsible for this and I regret it. I knew they were bent cops, knew they were trouble. That’s how and why I was paying them to work for me, to keep an eye on Moran and his treatment of you. They could relay information to me regarding the plans of the good Doctors Watson and Moran and your brother's little spy, Inspector Lestrade. I had no idea they would do this to you though.”

Sherlock turned his face away, remembering their words. Lestrade had told them all about him, about his rape. They had known about Anderson and had believed him to be nothing but a whore.

The whole police station were laughing at him. Sherlock knew it.

Hate flooded through him.

_'Lestrade did this. And John must have known too. They appointed Moran to deal with me and stood by while he tortured me. How can they do this to me? How could they leave me here to suffer?_

_Are they all against me?'_

Sherlock looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He felt nauseous. 

He held a shaky hand up to his forehead.

He couldn't think. Why couldn't he think?

“I-I need...” he stammered. “H-help me...”

_What's wrong with me?_

_Why do I feel so confused?_

Jim gripped Sherlock's shoulders and stared him in the eye. “You need to listen to me, Sherlock. I want to help you. Those two men will pay for their actions tonight. As will Moran. He was appointed by your brother.” Jim's eyes narrowed as he helped Sherlock carefully to his feet. “Every single member of this hospital staff who stood by and allowed this to happen will pay. I promise.”

Sherlock gazed up into his one time enemy’s face. He was no longer afraid of this man. Why should he be? 

At least he was there.

_'John hasn't come for me. I bet he hasn't even bothered to look. He put me in here and now he's leaving me to rot. They assaulted me and he's not here._

_Oh God, my head hurts._

_Probably having a good laugh at my expense with Lestrade at this very moment._

_I can't think straight._

_They hurt me. Jim wants to help me. Why shouldn't I let him?'_

“Good,” Sherlock finally snapped, coldly. “I want them to suffer. All of them.”

“They will,” Moriarty told him, touching his cheek gently. “ _Trust me, Sherlock._ ”

Sherlock's piercing eyes bored into Jim's. 

“I do.” He whispered. "Please, help me."

Moriarty leaned back contently, and smiled.

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

John peered at the building before him, hissing in pain as he cut his hand on the barbed wire fencing that surrounded the foreboding government facility. He quickly sucked on the blood now protruding from the wound.

He heard Lestrade tutting from nearby him. “I told you to be careful,” the Inspector hissed, keeping his voice to a bare minimum.

John said nothing, just continued to stare at the “hospital” building. It looked more like a prison, which is exactly what it was. A prison that was currently keeping Sherlock locked away from him.

They had arrived there a few minutes before, having parked up a mile away. They had then made the rest of the journey on foot, both of them bringing nothing but their torches and John's gun. They had full directions to the government facility, thanks to the address Moriarty had provided them with. Lestrade had commented a few times that he would have preferred them to have been armed with more than just John's trusty revolver. He'd felt that they could have at least had the time to arrange for some back up. John hadn't bothered to reply. Deep down, he knew Lestrade had a very good point, and that he was being foolhardy and rushing them both into this, but nothing could have held him up. All he could think about was Sherlock, and his desperation to get to him. Together, the two men had run from the car and across two fields, not speaking a word to each other, their flash lights brightening their way until finally, they had seen their destination. And the sight had only increased the worry and dread that they were both experiencing.

This was no hospital. It looked more like a mental institution from the 1800s and the sight of it had filled John with even greater terror, just to think that Sherlock had been trapped in there, alone and friendless, for so long. 

Before they had set off, Lestrade had obtained the access codes to the building, thanks to some very clever lies from Donovan, and now that they were right there, so close but still so far from completing their rescue mission; their main concern had become actually gaining entry inside the building, without cutting themselves to pieces on the fence or setting off an alarm in the process.

A task that Lestrade truly felt would be impossible. One did not simply walk into a secret government facility. 

The doubts continued to linger. If they were to be caught, they, especially Lestrade, would be in serious trouble. And there were no doubts that Mycroft would come himself to stick the boot in. And once he had had them carted off, the elder Holmes would waste no time in sending his younger brother as far away as possible. If that were to happen, they both knew, in all likeliness, that they would never see, or hear from, Sherlock ever again.

And John was not about to let that happen. Not to the man he loved.

“We have to get in there,” John muttered, determinedly. “Sherlock is in there – somewhere. I'm not giving up now.”

Lestrade held up a shaky hand. “Hang on, doctor.” He breathed. “Just hold your horses, alright? No one said anything about 'giving up,' did they? But this whole thing makes me nervous to my core, you know? The ‘help’ we got that led us here is hardly trustworthy is it?” He then rubbed his hand through his hair. “Why is this crazy Moriarty helping us at all? Why does he want us to rescue Sherlock anyway? From what you told me, he hates him. This doesn't make any sense.”

John shook his head in annoyance. “Why does it have to make sense? That’s Moriarty for you. Maybe he does have his own plan, I'm sure he does actually.” He fixed Lestrade with a cold glare. “But whatever game he's playing, if Sherlock is in that building, I'm getting him out. Moriarty can do what he pleases. I'm not leaving here without my friend, Lestrade.” John blinked back the tears threatening to spill, and clenched his fists angrily, before adding, with complete determination; “I'm not letting him down again.”

Lestrade let out a weary sigh. “Okay, John. Believe me, all I want is to see Sherlock again too,” he paused; “Even if it has been so nice and quiet lately...”

“I miss him,” John whispered.

Lestrade nodded. “I know you do. So do I. I even miss the insults.”

John looked up sharply, saw the smile on Greg's lips, knew he was teasing and, despite the pain he was feeling, returned the smile. 

“We have to get in there.” John repeated.

“Lets get on with it then,” Lestrade replied firmly. “There has to be a way in past this security wire they've set up. Just got to find it. Follow me, and try to keep quiet.”

And he took the lead, carefully edging his way along the fence, John staying close to him, both of them keeping to the shadows. John had his revolver in his hand, raised and ready, just in case. They both prayed they could find a way into the building with minimum fuss. For their sakes, and for Sherlock's.

Whatever it would take to get him out of his brother's grip, then that was what they would do.

XXX

Deeper in the complex, Sherlock was in his "cell." He was unaware of the desperate search for him that was occurring in a different section of the building. He was actually aware of very little; his mind simply could not focus, no matter how hard he tried. He glanced across the room and saw Moriarty standing quietly, with his back to Sherlock, gazing out of the door.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before deciding to speak.

“Where is Moran?” He asked; “And his two friends?”

Jim turned slowly, fixing Sherlock with a strange look.

“You don't have to worry about any of that now, Sherlock. You are safe here with me.”

Sherlock frowned. “I know that,” he replied, softly. “But I want to see them punished.”

Jim chuckled. “Of course you do. And they will be found, my dear;” Jim purred, rubbing Sherlock's arm tenderly. “I will see to it that they are all hunted down, and made to pay very imaginatively for what they dared to do to you.” 

“Good,” Sherlock noted.

The smaller man regarded the other for a moment, and then he stepped closer. “You do trust me, don't you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock blinked. “Of course I do.”

Jim’s smiled widened, and then he was suddenly grabbing Sherlock roughly and pulling him closer, kissing him fiercely and possessively. Sherlock did not resist; he allowed Moriarty dominance. It was all he could do. Why should he deny Jim? The other man was his only friend, the only person in the world on his side.

_'He was on his side. Wasn't he?'_

A cough interrupted their passionate embrace and they hurriedly, and unhappily, broke apart, both turning as one to look in the direction of the sound, and saw a smartly dressed figure in the doorway. Jim coughed, whispered; “Excuse me, Sherlock;” and he moved quickly to the door. Sherlock watched, his suspicion increasing, as the lackey hissed into Jim's ear. Whatever Jim was being told, he liked what he heard, and a wide grin spread across his features. This only spread further when his eyes met Sherlock's. 

When he spoke, he didn't bother to lower his voice. “They must be lost. Can't have that.” He turned to his hired help once more. “You know what to do,” he purred. “Go and get on with it, there's a good boy.”

He indicated for the suit to leave and the man turned tail at once, hurrying back out of the door. Moriarty watched him go, and then turned back to Sherlock, a lazy smile still on his lips.

“Well, well.” He smirked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What is it?” He snapped, impatiently. He was confused enough already, he didn't need any more mysteries right then.

Jim had no intention of hiding anything from him.

He licked his lips, before replying, with a cold chuckle.

“We have guests, Sherlock.”

Sherlock blinked. “Who?”

A pause. And then, Jim replied; “Lestrade and Watson.” 

Sherlock stared at him, unblinking.

Moriarty waited for his response. “John's here?” He asked, in a tiny voice. “He actually came?”

Jim cast his eyes down to the ground. “Oh yeah, he came for you alright. He's got his orders.”

Sherlock's head snapped up at that. “What do you mean, orders?”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock!” Jim rolled his eyes. “Don't you go and get all ordinary on me now!”

Sherlock gaped at him. He couldn't un-muddle his thoughts. He didn't understand what was happening.

He just wanted it all to go away. He wanted to sleep.

But John was there. John had for him. No matter how mixed up his mind was, that one fact was shining through.

_‘John wants to help me.’_

Moriarty was watching him, with some distaste.

“I can see that this news excites you,” he all but spat. “You disappoint me, Sherlock. I had hoped you’d have worked out the truth about that little traitor by now.”

Sherlock flinched. “Why are they here?” He replied, quietly. “What do they want?”

At Jim's annoyed look, Sherlock quickly looked away. 

“You think they want to hurt me?” 

Jim shrugged. “Probably. Mycroft pulls all of their strings, as we know. It wouldn't surprise me if big brother wants you silenced permanently, my dear.” He fixed Sherlock with a knowing glare. “And who better than the man you called your only friend to make that happen? Plus, John’s disposable. Easy to pin the blame on him,” he arched his eyebrow. “Or me, of course.”

Sherlock moaned. “John cares about me,” he whispered.

Jim smirked. “Don’t be an idiot, Sherlock. Open your eyes.” He gestured. “If they didn't have the nerve to kill you, they could be ensuring that, just like before, you are captured again, and safely out of harm's way, like a naughty child. You can’t be an embarrassment to your brother then, can you? While you’re still around, you're a problem to them, my dear, a problem they need to eradicate, and quickly.” A cold smile spread across his face. “Like a bag of rubbish.” There was amusement in his tone. “I assume Moran informed your brother of my efforts to free you and your friends are coming here to make sure I fail.” He snorted. “Like they could beat me. Like anyone could.”

Sherlock shivered, his eyes widening as he digested Jim's words. 

“I don’t want to go anywhere with them.” Sherlock spoke stubbornly, and then turned away, gazing at the wall. “They betrayed me. They don't care about me.”

Jim chuckled contently at Sherlock's back. He knew he'd won, that he had gained complete control over the other man. He smirked arrogantly. His master plan had been an unequivocal success. Sherlock Holmes belonged to him. And it was time to confirm his control of the other man.

He grinned. _'This was going to be fun.'_

“Sherlock, look at me.” Jim urged.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock did as he was told. His eyes instantly fell on the revolver in Jim's right hand, and he gave the smaller man a questioning look.

“What-?” He began, but Jim cut across him quickly.

“Take this,” Jim interrupted, his words firm, offering the gun to Sherlock, and waving it theatrically when Sherlock didn't respond to him immediately. “You have to defend yourself, my dear.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Jim's lips curled into a smile, before he added, in a knowing voice; “If it comes to it.”

Sherlock moaned. “I thought you said you'd protect me.”

“That’s what I am doing, my dear.” Jim replied. “My men and I will keep you as safe as it is in their power to do.” Jim gestured theatrically. “But you know how dangerous your brother is. And Lestrade and Watson have his full backing. If they want to get to you, they will do, despite my best efforts.” He walked closer to Sherlock then, leaning into him until he was actually pining the other man against the wall. “You might have to look after yourself too, my sweet. Be prepared to do whatever is necessary. Do you think you can do that? For me?”

Sherlock let out a low moan. He still didn't look at Moriarty. 

He heard an agitated sigh come from the other man, his “saviour,” and he tensed.

“Don't ignore me, Sherlock.” The words were icy, and laced with a warning.

Sherlock still didn't respond.

His breath then caught in his throat, when one of Jim's hands suddenly moved to grind against Sherlock's groin, palming him over his clothes. His back arched and he let out a helpless moan as the other man rubbed him mercilessly. Jim chuckled breathlessly as the sweat began to roll off of Sherlock's forehead, and his whole body began to tremble.  
   
“You like that, my dear?” Jim purred. “You like my touch, don't you?” 

“I,” Sherlock muttered. “I-”.

Jim stopped. He moved his hand away from Sherlock's hardness and instead gripped his chin, forcing Sherlock to finally lift his head and look directly at him. Sherlock saw the quiet fury written all over Moriarty's face, and the blazing anger in his eyes, and he shivered.

“You need to remember, Sherlock;” Jim told him, slowly and carefully, “I'm the only one in this sorry world that you can trust.”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He actually tried to push Jim back. At that, Jim slammed him back into the wall, and Sherlock let out a low cry.

“Perhaps I should just leave you to your friends,” Jim hissed. “If you don't want my help...”

Sherlock whimpered at that. “No,” he gasped. He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want Moriarty to go, despite how truly unwanted the man's touch was, Sherlock needed someone. He had no one else. That much was clear. “Please, Jim. Don't leave me. I'm sorry.”

Jim grinned. He stepped away from Sherlock, and watched in satisfaction as the other man slid down the wall, and then curled up into himself, at Moriarty's feet.

“I'm so confused,” Sherlock moaned. “Why can't I think? What's wrong with me?”

Jim crouched down beside Sherlock then, placing both his hands on the other man's shoulders. “It will all be alright, my dear,” Jim drawled. “Once this is all over, and it’s just you and me, then you will be able to think clearly.” He whispered into Sherlock's ear. “And you'll see all of this was for the best. You're mine, Sherlock. The other side to me. We are meant to be together. You'll understand and appreciate me when your work here is done.” He stroked Sherlock's unruly, unkempt hair. _“Trust me, Sherlock.”_

Sherlock nodded quickly. “I do trust you, Jim.”

“Good man.”

Moriarty then stood, beaming down at Sherlock. With a swagger, he then walked toward the door, pulled it open, and exited the room, leaving Sherlock alone.

Sherlock stayed where he was, on the floor, his head buried in his hands. Shaking uncontrollably, and his head still aching with pain and confusion, he looked up, his gaze falling on the gun, discarded when Jim threw it onto Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock could only stare at the gun, as he thought back to Jim's request.

Jim was right. Of course he was. Sherlock had not been able to protect himself against Anderson, or those two thugs that had so recently abused and humiliated him. He would not make the same mistake for a third time. He would not go through that again.

Sherlock quickly crawled across the floor, grasped the gun and looked down at it, gritting his teeth in determination.

Anyone who tried to get to him would regret it.

XXX

Lestrade and John were making their way down yet another white corridor. Every passage they had chosen had looked the same and they had both come to the inevitable conclusion – that they were completely and hopelessly lost. They had also begun to bicker, both becoming frustrated with their bleak situation.

Finally, Greg, with a shake of his head, came to a stop, his hands on his hips. 

“We've been down here before,” he hissed.

“I don't think so.” John shot back, still walking on ahead.

“John, we have no idea where the hell we are, where Sherlock is, or even if he was ever here. All we have is the word of a mad man who, if I’m following all this correctly, hates you and Sherlock-”

“He doesn't hate Sherlock,” John snapped coldly. “He's obsessed with him." He glanced down. "And besides, this is all a part of his game. He's probably here somewhere, watching us, laughing at us.”

Greg's lips twitched at that. “Oh yeah. He's a very funny guy.”

John shrugged. “I don't care what the plan is. I _know_ Sherlock is here. I can feel it. And I'm going to find him.

Lestrade let out a weary sigh. “John, have you even wondered why this place is so deserted?”

John blinked. “This is a secret facility, not the NHS! They wouldn't have a lot of staff-”

“We haven't seen anybody.”

“Isn't that a good thing?” John countered.

“It's a bit unlikely, don't you think?”

John had heard enough. He walked back to Lestrade, his anger threatening to boil over.

“What is this all about, Lestrade? Do you even want to find Sherlock? Because all you ever do is-”

A new voice cut across the annoyed doctor, cutting him off sharply:

“Excuse me? Can I help you, gentlemen?”

John froze. His gaze met Lestrade's, who was looking equally as concerned. John turned slowly to find a woman standing close by, clutching a dinner tray, watching them suspiciously. She was wearing a nurse's uniform, and was currently eyeing them nervously as she inquired, with clipped tones; “Why are you here?” 

John glanced at Lestrade. “Happy now?” He muttered.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

The doctor then coughed, and took a wary step forward. He paused when the woman recoiled quickly. “I'm sorry,” the doctor said, as calmly as he could muster. He thought quickly and decided he had no choice but to throw all of their eggs in to one basket. If they were about to be caught and dragged kicking and screaming to Mycroft Holmes, then why not go for broke? Putting in his most professional accent, John continued. “We appear to be lost.”

She frowned. “Who are you looking for?”

John hesitated for a second. “Sherlock Holmes.”

Greg grimaced beside him. John didn't dare look at him but he knew Lestrade probably thought him crazy. 

The nurse was giving John a curious look. “And you are?”

John frowned at her. “Doctor Watson, I was sent here by Mycroft Holmes.” When she didn't react, he gestured in annoyance. “Sherlock's brother?”

Lestrade cleared his throat as he watched the woman nervously. He wasn't sure how they would deal with the situation if she raised the alarm. A quick glance at John told Greg he was thinking exactly the same.

“Will you help us please?” John finally asked, his impatience evident.

She blinked, and then, after a few more seconds passed, she smiled broadly.

“Of course, doctor.” She answered pleasantly. Beckoning for the two men to follow her, they watched as she indicated down the corridor. “Carry straight on down this way, then turn left, and follow another, very similar to this corridor. Mister Holmes is in the last room on the right.”

John was dumbfounded. He hadn't expected her to help them at all, let alone give them directions. After a second, he managed to reply; “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she responded. “Have a nice day.”

With that, she strode away, plastic tray outstretched in front of her. John watched her go, then turned to Lestrade excitedly. “Thank God for that! I can't believe she believed me.”

“Nor can I,” the detective countered. “Very convenient.”

John threw him an annoyed look, then shrugged. “Lets go,” he snapped, and made to rush off down the corridor the nurse had shown them.

Lestrade, though, was not satisfied. He reached out and gripped John's arm, preventing him from proceeding. John turned and regarded his friend furiously.

“What are you doing?”

“Think about this, John,” Lestrade snapped to him. “Why did that woman help us? Why has no one tried to stop us? This is supposed to be a government facility and we're just walking through at our leisure. Something is wrong here!”

John shrugged. He didn't want to listen to this. “I am a Doctor. I don't think its a stretch to have a doctor in a hospital, do you?”

Greg let out a frustrated sigh. “It is a stretch to be allowed to make our way through this place without even being asked for ID. We broke in, for heavens sake! Why have no alarms been sounded? Why haven't we been arrested?” He was all but pleading now. “Think about this, John. You know this isn't right.”

John had heard enough. He tore him arm away from Lestrade and then pushed him back, against the wall. “You know what? Maybe you're right and this is all a trap. I know Moriarty better than you and I don’t believe for a second he helped us for any other reason but his own gain. But if Sherlock is here, then I'm going to find him.” He released his hold on Greg then, and backed away. “I'm so close, Greg. I can't stop now.”

Lestrade took a deep breath, wiping a weary hand across his forehead. He understood how the doctor felt; he was feeling the same way. He had let Sherlock down too, after all. This had all started because Lestrade had sent Sherlock into _that_ house, straight into _that_ altercation with Anderson. All the hell that had happened to Sherlock had stemmed from what had happened that night. John needed to find his friend, and Lestrade wasn't about to run away either. He owed it to Sherlock, just as much as John did, to make this right.

He swallowed hard, and then gestured to John, indicating for him to keep going. John nodded appreciatively. He gathered himself for a second, and then headed on.

They continued down another two white corridors, until they saw a door located at the far end of the last section. John walked quickly up the door, took a deep breath, and then pulled it open.

As he stepped into the room, he let out a low gasp at the sight that greeted him. Lestrade was right behind him, and he too reacted to what he saw, swearing furiously under his breath.

Sherlock was standing beside the bed, gazing at the two men who had just entered his room. He was dressed in a hospital gown, and was keeping one hand behind his back, out of sight. He looked from John, to Greg, and then back again. He didn't speak, just merely continued to stare. 

John instantly started forward, emotion surging through him as he took in the sight of his best friend, alive and apparently well, but just as went to run to Sherlock, Lestrade suddenly grabbed his arm, holding him steady. John glared at him furiously, but Greg merely shook his head, his expression grim. He didn't take his eyes off of Sherlock.

John soon saw why.

Sherlock slowly raised his right hand, displaying the gun for John and Greg to see, and then aiming it irectly at the two men. His face was completely blank, devoid of any emotion. 

That was what unnerved John the most.

He stared back at Sherlock, complete unaware of what he should do or say, and so desperate not to panic the clearly frightened man standing mere feet away from him. It was torture for John. All he wanted to do was to go to his friend and embrace him, hold him tightly and never lett go. Finally, unable to hold himself back a moment longer, John took a small, wary step forward.

“Sherlock-” he began.

“Keep away,” Sherlock spat, at once.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade attempted, his voice soft, gentle. Calming. “Put the gun down.”

At that, Sherlock began to laugh. The sound cut through John, and he actually wanted to vomit.

“Please,” he moaned. “Sherlock-”

All three men were startled when the door behind them was suddenly flung open, cutting John off abruptly. Seconds later, a man rushed into the room, his arms outstretched, as if in greeting.

“Doctor Watson!” the man exclaimed, a wide smile plastered across his face. “And Inspector Lestrade!” He frowned at Sherlock, his expression like that of a annoyed parent scolding a mischievous child. “Don't be silly now, Sherlock. Where did you get the gun from?” He let out a nervous laugh. “Put it down right now, please. These men are here for your own good.” He nodded to John. “I've heard from Mycroft. He's on his way.”

“No!” Sherlock breathed. His gaze was locked on John alone. “You and Moran, you're together...”

John blinked, staring from Sherlock and then at the newcomer in complete astonishment. He had never seen this person before in his life, but yet here he was, greeting both John and Greg like old friends. A quick look at Lestrade proved to John that his friend was at as much of a loss as John was.

“Who the hell are you?” Lestrade demanded, glaring furiously at the stranger.

Moran merely gazed back at him, his face neutral.

And then, seeing the man's amusement that he was barely bothering to conceal, John figured out exactly what was going on. His eyes narrowed.

“This is his game, isn't it?” John stated softly, earning a smirk from Moran. “This is Moriarty's trap and we walked straight into it. Like a couple of lambs to the slaughter.” He glared at Moran. “Isn't that right?”

Moran gave him a condescending smile, and then once more looked toward the now trembling Sherlock.

“Time to leave, Mr. Holmes. Are you ready?”

Sherlock let out a despairing moan. The confused man was shaking his head hopelessly and mumbling under his breath, the gun wavering in his grip. “No,” he moaned. “I'm not going with you. You aren't sending me away. I'm not going to listen to you-”

John swallowed hard. With a quick sideways glance to Lestrade, he then turned his back on Moran, and took an uncertain step toward Sherlock.

Seeing the movement, Sherlock instantly pointed the gun directly at John. He stared at the other man as if he didn't know him, and the sight made John's blood freeze. He glanced across quickly at Lestrade, who looked equally as horrified.

“Sherlock,” John offered desperately, taking a step towards the trembling man. “Please listen to me. Whoever this is, he's lying to you. We're here to help-”

“If you come near me,” Sherlock hissed; “ _I will kill you._ ”

John could only stare at his broken best friend.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, “Oh God.”

No longer able to hold back the tears, John could only shake his head, heartbroken.

“I'm so sorry.”

TBC


	14. Rescue

John was still watching Sherlock, the concern and despair evident on his face. He took another wary step forward, hissing in anger when Lestrade grabbed his right arm, pulling him back.

“He's not going to shoot me!” John snapped, trying to pull his arm free of the worried police officer, before returning his gaze to Sherlock. “Are you?”

Sherlock's gun hand wavered. “Just stay back!”

Lestrade continued to pull on John's arm, trying to convince the other man to give Sherlock the room he so obviously required. “Do as he says, John.” He whispered. “Just back off.”

Moran, watching all of this with clear amusement, chuckled pleasantly. “Perhaps the straight jacket would be a good idea after all, Doctor?”

John threw the man a look of pure hatred. He quickly saw too that his words had had the desired effect on Sherlock. His friend had recoiled in horror, his gun trembling in his grasp, as he muttered desperately to himself.

_“Not going... not going... not going...”_

John couldn't bear it. All he wanted to do was embrace Sherlock, to hold him and show him that he had nothing to be frightened of. Not from him. John was there now, he'd protect him and never let anything hurt him again.

“Come now, Sherlock,” Moran spoke up again, in his most formal, condescending tone, as if he were addressing a small child. “These gentlemen are here to move you on quickly and quietly, to take you to your brother. You know he is a very impatient man, and it wouldn't do to keep him waiting now, would it?”

Lestrade had heard enough.

“Whoever you are,” he snapped, “You _are_ going to shut your mouth, or I'll do it for you.”

The doctor’s eyes sparkled as he laughed at him. “Is that right?” 

Lestrade bristled as he regarded the sneering man. “I don't know have a clue who you are,” he said, softly. “And I couldn't actually care less. But I know you've hurt this man, who happens to be a friend of mine.” He paused, eyeing Sherlock uncertainly. “You've obviously seriously messed with his head, and done some real damage to him. Probably even _tortured_ him for all I know-”

“Oh please!” Moran scoffed, crossing his arms. “What do you think this is, Inspector Lestrade? The dark ages?” He glanced over at Sherlock, who was looked like he was ready to pass out, the gun now clasped in both his hands as he wavered unsteadily on his feet. “All the treatment that we have administered to Mr Holmes was agreed by not only his brother, but also Doctor Watson here too-”

“You're a liar!” John yelled, no longer able to stand there and listen to any more of this man’s nonsense. “You work for _him,_ don't you? This has all been set up by that _bastard._ ” 

“Who?” Moran replied, sounding amused once more. "I'm sorry, I don't know-"

“You damn well do know who I’m talking about!” John stormed. “Don't even bother to deny it! What's the plan, then? You play with Sherlock, you and Jim. Fuck him up so badly that he turns on me, kills me, while you stand by and watch? Then Moriarty will sweep in and claim his prize. Am I close?”

Moran said nothing. He merely smiled.

That was enough of a confirmation for John.

“You can tell Moriarty from me,” he hissed, balling his hands into fists; “That I'm not going to play his game any more.” His gaze swung back round to Sherlock, who was now watching him closely, his breathing laboured. “And neither is Sherlock Holmes.”

John turned quickly to look up at Lestrade, and the policeman understood. With a last glare at Moran, Lestrade released his hold on John's arm and the doctor immediately moved ever closer to Sherlock, being careful not to panic the other man further.

“Sherlock,” John tried again, eyes locked on his dearest friend, “I know you're scared and you've clearly been brainwashed and manipulated by this piece of scum.” His voice broke slightly. “God only knows what you’ve gone through in this Hell-hole.” He reached out to his friend. “But I also know that deep down, you do trust me and you are _not_ going to shoot me.” He paused, suddenly having a brainwave. “Want to know how I much I believe in you? Watch this. And _trust me.”_

Holding a hand up to show Sherlock he meant him no harm, John reached into his jacket, and pulled out his own revolver. Sherlock tensed, but otherwise didn’t move. Keeping his other hand raised, John then knelt down, and placed his gun on the ground. He straightened once more, and let out an nervous breath.

Taking another step forward, and grimacing when he saw Sherlock point the gun directly at his heart once more, he whispered; “Put the gun down, Sherlock, and lets get the hell out of here.”

Sherlock stared at John, opening his mouth as if he were going to speak, but then closing it again, shaking his head harshly from side to side. 

“I don't-” Sherlock moaned, averting his eyes to the floor. “I don't-”

John held out a shaky hand to his best friend, his eyes moist and red as he fought back tears.

“Come with me, Sherlock.” He whispered. “Lets go home.”

Sherlock looked up at John, and it was obvious that he was utterly confused.

“Home?” He muttered. “Back to the flat?”

John nodded vigorously. “Yes. The flat. Baker Street. Mrs Hudson will be watching out for us. She's missed you so much.” He paused, his voice breaking, as he struggled to contain his emotions. “So have I.”

“Mycroft has strict instructions to deliver his brother to the airport, Doctor Watson, as you well know.” Moran's voice was suddenly strained, as if troubled by events suddenly not unfolding as he had believed they would. “I don't know what you are trying to prove with this, but Mycroft will be very unhappy-”

“Last warning!” Lestrade yelled, rounding on the doctor furiously. “I swear to God I will lay you out if you do not shut up.”

Moran eyed him and Lestrade could see his true feelings then, clear on his face. Pure, unadulterated hate, aimed directly at him.

“Who are you?” Lestrade hissed, shoving Moran back against the wall. “What the hell do you want?”

“He is _Doctor_ Moran,” came a quiet voice from behind them. “Sometimes…” Lestrade turned to look, releasing Moran again, to look at Sherlock, who had finally spoken up, though in a very broken tone. “My _surgeon_ as appointed by my dear brother... If that’s what they call a torturer these days.” He grimaced, and then looked over at John once more. “And appointed by _you_ , John, or so they tell me…”

“That's right, Sherlock,” Moran said, at once. “All I have ever cared about is your well-being, you must understand that?”

_“Oh, he does.”_

The sudden high, smarmy voice made all of them jump.

Jim Moriarty was stood, leaning against the door, his arms crossed.

Sherlock looked at him, his face darkening as he continued to aim his gun at John.

“You need to finish it now, my dear.” Moriarty purred to him. “Kill him.”

Sherlock didn't reply, though his gun hand shook ever so slightly.

Moriarty walked across the room. His head was held high, and he sauntered along as if he didn't have a care in the world. He moved to stand beside Sherlock and John, an air of authority about him. Lestrade was looking on, unsure, waiting for someone to make a move. Moran only had eyes for Moriarty, a knowing smile on his lips.

“You want to make me happy, don't you, Sherlock?” Moriarty whispered.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He didn't know what he wanted, that was obvious.

Jim reached out, and gently stroked Sherlock's arm in a very possessive gesture. John reacted in anger. “Get your hands off of him right now, you bastard!”

“He's not yours any more!” Jim threw back. “He's mine.”

“Why?” John retorted. “Because you abused him? Brainwashed him? He's stronger than you and he can fight you.” His eyes met Sherlock's, before he added softly. “I know he can beat you.”

Jim smirked. “Strong words, John. Well, lets see, shall we?” He turned back to Sherlock. “Finish it, Sherlock. Shoot the man that plotted against you. Betrayed. Take your revenge.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “I-” He moaned, shaking his head. “I don't-”

“He makes you weak, my dear. He's in your way, keeping you on the side of the angels, against me. Remove him and nothing can stop you.” His eyes flashed. “Stop _us_. Remove the problem, Sherlock.”

Jim smiled, and waited.

John didn't look away from Sherlock. 

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock whispered.

“Don't be,” John replied, and closed his eyes, prepared for whatever was about to happen.

Moriarty's smile widened in expectation. “That's it, my love;” he hissed. “Just shoot him for me, and it will all be over. We can get out of here, together.”

Sherlock's finger covered the trigger, poised.

Jim clapped excitedly. John opened his eyes.

Sherlock paused. And then, very quickly, he winked at John, whose eyes widened in shock.

Then, moving faster than he should have been able to considering the state he was in, Sherlock spun on the spot, and fired two shots off at Moran, who dived out of the way, flinging a table down and cowering behind it.

Moriarty grabbed at Sherlock's gun, his eyes glinting furiously. “You're aim is a bit _off,_ Sherlock! I told you to kill _John!”_

“I heard you,” Sherlock muttered, “and this is my response, Jim.”

Pushing the other man back, Sherlock then turned and aimed his gun directly at Moriarty's face.

Moriarty gaped at Sherlock, clearly amazed by this turn of events, and then backed away slowly, hands raised in surrender. “What are you doing, Sherlock?”

“I'm doing what you said. Removing my _problem.”_

Moriarty shook his head, apparently saddened. “This is very stupid of you, my dear. Don't be boring.”

Sherlock trembled, with pain and anger, and then readied his gun. 

“You’ll pay for this, Sherlock.” Jim told him, his voice filled with malice. “Do you hear me? You will regret this.”

“Change the record.” Sherlock managed, his voice croaky. Moriarty merely smirked back at him. 

Seconds passed.

Just as Sherlock composed himself, just as he prepared to fire, there was a shout of fury from the corner of the room and suddenly Moran was flinging himself at his former patient, grabbing for him and wrestling him to the floor. Cue pandemonium. John, yelling, ran to Moran, trying to seize him and get him off of Sherlock, who was in no condition to put up a battle. Lestrade was also trying to get a decent hold on the fuming Moran. John, looking up, saw that Moriarty was taking his chance, and making a hasty exit. 

“Hey!” John shouted, looking around desperately for his revolver, but it was nowhere in sight.

Moriarty laughed at him, gave him a cute wave, and ducked out of the room.

John rushed to the door, but the man was already gone.

“Damn it!” John spat, punching the door in frustration.

While this was happening, Lestrade had managed to drag Moran off of Sherlock and had shoved him backwards, pinning him against wall.

“Don't you move a muscle,” he snarled.

Moran glared, but didn't fight fight back.

“Moriarty got away,” John told Lestrade.

The policeman grimaced, but then indicated with his head towards their wounded friend.

“Check on Sherlock, John. He matters more.”

John didn't wait another second, he went quickly to Sherlock's side at once. Sherlock, still on his knees, his whole being trembling, recoiled as he felt John come closer. John, fighting back tears once again, whispered to Sherlock, trying to calm him down. It worked. Sherlock didn't stop trembling, but his body language softened slightly. John put his arms around his best friend, just holding him. They stayed there for a short time, Lestrade keeping Moran pressed against the wall, watching him closely, and allowing his two friends some privacy. They had both waited so long for their reunion. Very nervously, Sherlock gave in, responding to John. He grasped his arm and held onto him so tightly, his eyes screwed up.

“It's okay,” John muttered to him. “I'm here.”

Sherlock raised his head painfully and stared at John. John smiled back.

The beaten man tightened his hold even more.

“As heart-warming as this is, I have to ask you to move away from him, John…”

Everyone in the room started in surprise and turned in the direction of yet another new voice, only it wasn’t Moriarty this time. They were stunned to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, his customary smug smile on his lips. He was holding John's gun loosely in his right hand, having scooped it up as he had quietly entered.

John, after regretfully releasing his hold on Sherlock, glared hatefully at Mycroft as he got quickly to his feet. Before he could charge at Mycroft though, and show him exactly what he thought of him, Mycroft was crossing the room confidently, marching directly up to Lestrade and Moran.

“Let the doctor go, please Inspector.”

Lestrade hesitated. “But-”

“I won't ask you again.” Mycroft's tone oozed power. Greg frowned, but then released Moran, and stepping back. Moran smirked at him, and then straightened his clothes and dusted himself down.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said to Mycroft, who nodded in response.

“I apologise for their treatment of you, doctor.” Mycroft told him. “It will be dealt with, I promise you.”

“Mycroft-” John began, ready to argue their innocence, “Moriarty just-” but Mycroft waved his hand, disinterested.

“Be quiet, John.”

He pointed furiously at the door. “Didn’t you hear me, Mycroft? Moriarty went that way!”

Mycroft‘s eyes blazed. “I said, _be quiet!”_

After giving the doctor a moment to seethe, Mycroft then approached John, no emotion on his face at all. He was impossible to read, his tone formal and cold.

“John, you can no longer be trusted. Your presence here is no longer appropriate.”

John bristled. “Is that right?”

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, considering John, and then turned his attention to Lestrade, who was hanging back, keeping close to Sherlock.

“Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft snapped. “You were instructed to have no contact with John Watson. You disobeyed a direct order. I have been asked to inform you that you are suspended, pending an investigation, commencing immediately.”

Lestrade stared, dumbstruck, at Mycroft. “What authority do you-”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I think you can take my word for it, Inspector. You will find official notice waiting for you at home. You will be hearing from your superiors about the upcoming investigation into your rank unprofessional-ism. Is that clear?”

He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he focused on Sherlock, who was looking anywhere but at his brother.

Mycroft moved forward. “Sherlock,” he began, “I need you to come-”

“He's not going anywhere with you!” John spat, stepping in front of Sherlock. “Don't you go near him!” 

Mycroft sighed. “John, stay out of this please.”

“You've got to be flaming joking!”

“He's my brother.”

John scoffed.

“You don't see him as a brother. You see him as a test subject.” He leaned closer. “Well, I'm taking him away from here tonight. And away from you.”

Mycroft shook his head. Giving up on John, he decided to address Sherlock instead. 

“Sherlock, I need you to listen-”

John wasn't having any of it, he actually pushed Mycroft back. He no longer cared what the other man was capable of. Not after what he had caused.

“You're the one that needs to listen!” John spat. “Lestrade and I are taking Sherlock out of this hell hole and taking him home. Don't try to stop us!”

Mycroft glanced at Lestrade, who was watching the exchange closely. He had a protective arm around Sherlock, and he was not about to let go.

“Don't make an enemy of me, John.” Mycroft warned.

John actually laughed, despite the anger he was feeling. “As incredible as this will be for you to accept, you selfish bastard, this is actually not about you You know what he’s been through. How could you do this to him? _How?”_

Mycroft pursed his lips together. “I don’t expect you to understand, John, but I believed I was acting in Sherlock’s best interests.”

John actually snorted. “Then, tell me Mycroft, why didn’t you leave him with me? With someone who actually _cares_ about him?”

“John, I know you are connected to Sherlock emotionally-”

John could not longer stand it. He shot Sherlock one uncertain look, and then took a deep breath, and spoke on. No going back now.

“You could say that, Mycroft. I'm _in love_ with your brother. Completely. Took me some time to realise it, but now I know. This is all about him, not you. And I'm not about to hand him over to you again.”

Mycroft seemed astonished for a moment, but then, gave a unconcerned shrug.

Lestrade was looking away, clearly uncomfortable. Sherlock hadn't even moved. 

John then pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft. “What was all this about, Mycroft? Moriarty?” Mycroft remained silent. John's fury increased. “Well, guess what? Moriarty just escaped, from right under your nose. I’m assuming you couldn’t care less about him. So, why do all this? Just to keep Sherlock under control? To torture him, break him?” He glanced at his best friend. “Well, good job.”

Finally, very carefully, Sherlock lifted his head and fixed his brother with a knowing stare. Mycroft gazed back, all his attention suddenly on Sherlock, much to John's further annoyance. After a few intense seconds, Sherlock bowed his head once more.

“Are you going to answer me, Mycroft?”

At that, Mycroft smiled. It reminded John of a snake.

The furious doctor, realising his efforts were pointless, shook his head in disgust, and then gestured to Lestrade. The other man read his intention, and took a firm hold on Sherlock's arm. John held onto the exhausted man's other arm, and together, they began to move him forward, heading for the exit.

Lestrade paused. “Wait a second,” he muttered. “It’s cold out there.”

He then moved quickly, taking off his large coat and draping it round Sherlock’s shoulders. They locked gazes for a second, and the younger man whispered, “In case I go into shock, Lestrade?“ He then smiled gratefully. Lestrade could have cheered.

“Come on,” he told John.

Mycroft, who had watched all of this with something akin to confusion, suddenly came to life and raised a hand, moving between the three men and the door, blocking their escape. “You cannot take Sherlock, you don’t know how important this is. John. I do appreciate your concern-”

“My _concern?_ Are you even _human?_ ”

“John,” Lestrade muttered, worried for his friend and noticing Sherlock's sudden obvious discomfort at the confrontation. “Calm down.”

John, just about keeping his temper in check, grimaced.

“Just get out of the way, Mycroft.”

Mycroft frowned, his hands held out in front of him, his face set in determination.

“John, I must insist that you-”

The doctor, his grip tightening even more on his best friend's arm, swung round and fixed Mycroft with a look that would have struck the older man dead where he stood if John had that power.

“Just don't try it, Mycroft.” He snarled. “Just... don't.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and opened his mouth to argue, but then, noticing the defiance and hate in John's eyes, decided against it. He inclined his head slightly, though his smirk remained, and then stepped aside, watching as John and Lestrade helped his brother from the room.

John looked back at Mycroft, and glared at him.

He paused. He could have sworn he'd seen something flash across Mycroft's face for a split second as he watched Sherlock struggle to walk unaided. But in the blink of an eye, it was gone, and John was certain he'd imagined in.

He turned his back on Mycroft and the three of them left them room as quickly as they could.

Which left Mycroft and Moran alone.

Mycroft's probing gaze met that of Moran, who quickly looked away. “This is unacceptable, Mycroft,” he said, trying to sound a lot more composed than he felt. “This is a hospital, not a circus!”

Mycroft continued to stare at Moran. The other man, flustered, quickly crossed the room.

“You will excuse me. I have work to do.”

The older Holmes brother nodded to him, and stepped aside, allowing him to pass unhindered. As Moran hurried past him, he couldn't help but squirm.

Mycroft stood in the doorway, watching after him, thoughtfully.

XXX

Lestrade was supporting Sherlock to the car, John walking just behind them. They had moved through the facility unhindered, the place apparently deserted. They had not spoken, all of them rendered silent by what had occurred that night. John found himself hanging back from the other two men, his feelings of guilt forcing him to keep his distance. The doctor wanted to be there for both of his friends, especially Sherlock, to be there for him, but the feelings of guilt were threatening to consume him. He hated himself, not only for trusting Mycroft in the first place and allowing him to do this to Sherlock, but also for presenting his brother to Moriarty as a gift. He was making it even worse, for not being strong for Sherlock now. He chose to keep away, to let Lestrade take care of Sherlock instead, though he knew that he was inevitably failing his best friend once again. 

“I'm alright, Lestrade,” Sherlock suddenly hissed, though his exhaustion was clear. “I can walk.”

“I heard you the first time,” Lestrade retorted, wearily. “But you've clearly been drugged, Sherlock, and God only knows what else. You need help.”

“I need home.”

Lestrade nodded grimly. “Yeah, that too.” He gestured to the car. “Lets get you there then. Now,” the frustration creeping into his tone; “ _Let me help you.”_

Sherlock, breathing hard now, his eyes unfocused, knew that Lestrade was making sense. He was having trouble standing by himself after all. The punishment he had been put through, physically and mentally, was catching up with him, tenfold. His gaze finally met Lestrade's, who was waiting by the now open car door, his hand outstretched, ready to aid Sherlock again.

“Fine,” Sherlock finally muttered, holding an unsteady hand out towards Lestrade. “Its the only help you'll be giving anyone for a while after all.”

Lestrade stopped, staring, open-mouthed at Sherlock. John closed his eyes and sighed. Why were either of them actually surprised? This was Sherlock. Tact had never been a big concern.

It seemed it had dawned on Sherlock that he had said the wrong thing, as he gnawed on his lower lip nervously, shooting a sideways glance to John.

Lestrade took a deep breath, fixing Sherlock with a frosty stare, and then replied, dryly; “It's actually good to know you're still you, Sherlock.” A small smile appeared on his face. “Now, will you _please_ get in the flipping car?!”

Sherlock couldn't help but give him a tiny smirk back, and then took Lestrade's hand. The suspended officer helped Sherlock into the car, being as gentle as he could, and closed the door after him, giving John a knowing nod.

He then rushed around to the front of the car, keys at the ready, leaving room for John to make his way to the car, pull open the door, and slide into the seat beside Sherlock. Sherlock didn't look at his friend as John shut the door behind him, cringing at the loud sound. The doctor glanced at Sherlock, unsure whether to speak or not. If Sherlock didn't want to hear from him, he couldn't blame him.

They sat there like that for a moment, in silence, until finally, John could bear it no longer. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and then turned to look at his best friend, who was staring straight ahead.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock.” John said, quietly.

Sherlock reacted, and gave John a knowing look.

“Yes, you said.”

John couldn't help the shudder running through him at the man's cold tone. But he knew he deserved it. How was he ever going to make it up to Sherlock? Yes, he found him, got him out of there but nothing would ever change the fact that he put him in there in the first place.

“I shouldn’t have trusted Mycroft,” John continued.

Sherlock grimaced, and then looked out of window. “I just want to forget John, Lets go home.” At last, he met John's desperate look. “Please.”

John swallowed hard, feeling the emotions inside of him threatening to overspill. He nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips, and then looked at Lestrade sitting in the drivers seat, ready to pull away and put the evil building behind them. Well, they could try anyway...

The doctor cleared his throat. “Greg, I-”

“Don't, doctor.”

John was close to despairing. Lestrade blamed him too, he knew it.

“But your job, Greg. I-”

“There's nothing you can say, John.” Lestrade told him, turning to address John. The pain was apparent, but so was Lestrade's desire to clear John of any blame, just from his look. “This is down to Mycroft, not you. Let's just get Sherlock, and us, the hell away from this place.” John nodded, and Lestrade faced the front once more, turning the key in the ignition. With one last glance in the rear view mirror, he added; “It gives me the creeps...”

John couldn't disagree. Time to try to move on. They had Sherlock, and he was all that mattered.

Sherlock stared out of the window. There was no emotion on his face at all as he stared at the facility that had been his prison, his torture chamber.

There was one thought he couldn't shake.

_'You will regret this, Sherlock…'_

Where was Moriarty? Why was he letting them go so easily? One thing was absolutely definite, this wasn't no way near over yet.

XXX

Moran was running, fearfully looking over his shoulder with every step. He had his car keys grasped in his left hand, his mobile phone in his right. He had only one desire, to get as far away as possible. He had failed, he had let Jim Moriarty down. He brought his phone shakily up to his ear and waited. He heard the dialling tone repeatedly, but there was no answer. He grimaced when it clicked onto voice mail. 

He took a deep breath, then began to speak.

“Jim, it's Moran. Where are you? Holmes got away with Lestrade and Watson, they took him despite his brother's best efforts to stop them. I don't know what to do. Please, call me.”

He cancelled the call, and then brought the phone up to rub against his cheek, staring into space. He was by his car now, at a loss at what move he should make. This was not how he and Moriarty had planned that night. Holmes had fought back, and Moran had no idea how he'd done it. He was supposed to have been broken beyond repair, and in Jim's power. How had it all gone so wrong?

A shudder ran through Moran. Would Moriarty abandon him now? Or would he simply silence him? He glanced around hopefully, just one last time, almost as if he expected Moriarty to come out of the shadows.

He knew he had no chance.

Moran unlocked the car, cringing as it bleeped, the noise cutting through the silence, and he stepped towards the door. He froze when he heard footsteps walking up behind him.

A cold smile spread across his face. So, he had come for him after all...

“I tried to call-” he began, as he turned around.

He stopped talking abruptly when he saw Mycroft Holmes, not Jim Moriarty, smiling at him pleasantly.

“Good evening, Doctor Moran,” Mycroft said, softly. “I thought you said you had work to do?

Moran blinked, and then smiled politely.

“I'm sorry, Mycroft. It's been a very strange night. I decided to head off home.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, still speaking quietly. “I can only imagine what a trying time it's been for you.” He took a step closer. “But I'm afraid I must inconvenience you further tonight.”

Moran's smile faltered slightly, and then he recovered.

“I assume you wish to discuss your brother?”

Something flashed across the older Holmes' face at the mention of Sherlock.

“Yes, indeed I do.”

Moran nodded. “I see. Well, as I said, I am very tired now. Perhaps you could call me tomorrow morning, Mycroft?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Come now, Moran. We both know you won't be at work tomorrow morning. Please come with me.”

Suddenly more men stepped out of the darkness, and approached Moran and Mycroft, quickly surrounding them. Moran glared at them. Mycroft didn't even react. 

Moran swallowed hard. Now, he was in trouble.

“What do you want?” He asked, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. All pretences of friendliness had disappeared.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Just a chat, my old friend.”

He stepped aside gesturing for Moran to move ahead of him.

“You know, it was incredibly frustrating that James Moriarty managed to allude my men. Still, I’m not leaving here empty handed, it would seem.“

Moran smirked. “He was too clever for you.”

Mycroft smiled. “Perhaps. But as you have taken his place, we can now use this opportunity to tell talk all about your good friend, James Moriarty, _Colonel_ Moran.” 

“I won’t tell you anything!“ Moran spat back. “I’m a soldier! I can’t withstand more torture than-“

Mycroft, his teeth bared, suddenly launched himself forward, leaning in so close to the other man, who was only a hair lengths away. Moran flinched, preparing himself for the blow, but it never came.

Instead, he snarled in the disgraced Colonel’s ear. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He lowered his voice even further. “I was also like to know why you allowed Moriarty to molest my little brother while he was in your care, not to mention your decision to treat him with Electric Shock Treatment...”

Moran pulled clear of his hold, and gaped at Mycroft, staring into his cold, blazing eyes.

He shivered. There was no mercy to be found there. 

TBC


	15. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!! One more chapter to go... :(
> 
> And this one, even for me, is _intense_

John was sat in his small office, leaning back in his not-to-comfortable chair. He had been like that, not moving, for the last thirty minutes, simply staring into space. He had been working for a small walk-in NHS centre for a few weeks, he'd had no choice, not if he and Sherlock planned to pay Mrs Hudson's rent. She had offered to give them some time but John had refused point blank. The old lady didn't have much money herself, there was no way they were going to take advantage of her. So John had gone out for some interviews and had been fortunate enough to find a temporary position and now he and Sherlock were just about getting by. It had crossed John's mind that he had landed the job quite easily and he had wondered why. He had already made up his mind that if he'd had some unwanted assistance from powerful “friends” then he would promptly hand in his notice, but he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Mycroft since his one and only very misjudged visit to the flat, the only time John had heard from him since he, Sherlock and Lestrade had left that horrible place, almost three months ago. 

John had decided to give this new opportunity his very best effort but had quickly realised that his mind was simply not on the job. And now, here he was again, lost in his own troubled thoughts.

He covered his face with his hands and let out a deep sigh. His colleagues had given up inviting him to join them for any after work social events, or even out for lunch. He always declined, wanting just to get home and check on Sherlock. It had been so hard, those first few painful days. Lestrade had stayed with them for a short time, keeping an eye on Sherlock, just ensuring that the man was still in his right mind after his ordeal – as much as he ever had been anyway.

Sherlock hadn't left his room for the first fortnight. All he did was sit on his bed, with his laptop, working all day and all night. John and Lestrade knew exactly what he was doing, but didn't know how to stop him. Sherlock had been trying to find Moriarty and Moran from the moment they had arrived back in Baker Street, not only due to a need for revenge, but, confusingly, also to take his mind off of everything those two men had done him. If he was looking for them, he was preoccupied. He had hardly spoken to John, only giving him one word answers, or getting up sharply to close the door on his one time best friend any time John had braved a visit to Sherlock's room. Lestrade had fared no better, leaving John and Sherlock to it after satisfying himself that Sherlock was still sane and no danger to John or Mrs Hudson. 

The only time Sherlock and John seemed to truly connect during those heartbreaking weeks was when Mycroft had attempted to see Sherlock. John had answered the door to him, immediately refusing him entry, baring his way. John had had no intention of even allowing Mycroft to _see_ his brother, much to the elder Holmes' anger. Mycroft had gone as far as to threaten John, reminding the doctor of who he was, and also stating, with serious indignation, that he was Sherlock's brother, and had more rights to be close to him than John had. John had lost his temper at those words, informing Mycroft that he knew exactly what he was – a 'slimy, lying bastard that had no morals or feelings', and John would would be damned if he ever let him anywhere near Sherlock ever again. John had added, with real hatred, that he couldn't trust Mycroft not to hurt Sherlock again, and there was absolutely no way that he was going to give him the chance. 

And then John had slammed the door shut in Mycroft's face.

Sherlock had been waiting inside, where he had clearly been listening intently. He had nodded gratefully to John and thanked him. And then he had gone back to his room a second later, when John had stupidly attempted to talk to him. 

And that was basically how things between them had continued on for weeks. Sherlock had kept himself to himself, only coming out of his room if he thought John wasn't there, or if he needed to ask for something. Whenever John tried to engage Sherlock in conversation, he received blunt replies, before Sherlock's bedroom door was once again slammed shut as Sherlock made his escape.

_It was as though Sherlock was not really there at all..._

_Bang bang bang_

Suddenly, there was a loud knock on John's door, and he jumped in surprise. After taking a moment to compose himself, he cleared his throat and called; “Come in.”

A young intern that John had seen around the place a few times poked his head around the door.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Doctor Watson.”

“No problem. Ben, isn't it?”

The youngster nodded. “Yes.”

“What's up?”

“I need your help. Something's happened outside. There's been an accident, and someone's hurt...”

John was immediately alert. “What's wrong?”

The boy hesitated, apparently very agitated. “It's difficult, he's a friend of mine, and he shouldn't really be here, but I had nowhere else to leave him. It's awkward because he's been in some trouble and I was hiding him, but I didn't know what else to do and you've always seemed nice so-”

John, already on his feet and grabbing his bag, held up a hand. “Calm down. You're not making any sense. Now, what's happened to your friend?”

Ben swallowed, his whole body trembling. “I - I think he might have been stabbed. There's so much blood-”

John gestured, “Show me where he is.” Ben gave him a grateful smile, babbling his thanks, and then waited for John to join him in the corridor. The two men quickly made their way to the nearest exit. John soon found himself outside the hospital, at the rear side of the building.

“Where?” He asked the doctor urgently.

The other man pointed towards an alley way. “Down there. Better be quick. I think I controlled the bleeding but it was still pretty bad. I'll go fetch a bed for him, if its okay with you.”

“Sure,” John said. He paused, "What's your friends name?"

Ben blinked. "Oh, um, it's Jesse."

John frowned, but then nodded politely. The man was in shock after all. With a nod, he left Ben, heading towards the alley. Serious doubt had flashed through his mind, but he knew he had no choice. Although this was obviously a pretty odd chain of events, his concern for an injured innocent soon took precedence and he ran toward the alley, calling out to this 'Jesse', or anyone else who was down there.

No one replied.

“Hello?” He called again. “I'm a doctor. I'm here to help.”

He edged his way further down the secluded path, but there was nothing there. No stabbing victim, no sign of any blood, nothing. He looking around for a while, confused, then he turned, ready to go and find the young man to check on the details. 

_“I do hope that you can indeed help me, Doctor Watson._ ”

John stopped, instantly rolling his eyes. Yes, he had been very foolish indeed. Of course it had been a trap. He looked up, already knowing the unwanted sight he was about to see.

Mycroft Holmes was standing a few feet away from him at the end of the alley, bowler hat and umbrella in place. 

John stared at him for a moment, and then laughed.

“I knew it.”

Not wanting to take part in the conversation he knew Mycroft was there for, John went to push past the taller man but Mycroft blocked his way. John eye-balled him and he saw the determination on the older Holmes' face. He knew this was going to be tiresome. 

“Just wait a moment, please John.” Mycroft asked, somewhat anxiously.

“Very cute, Mycroft." He snapped "Who was that, anyway? One of your lackeys?” Mycroft didn't bother to respond. John glowered, and shook his head firmly. “I have nothing to say to you. And I'm also really late home so I don't have time for this.”

Mycroft was clearly fighting to contain his temper. “Will you just open your eyes and ears John, and hear me out?”

John tilted his head slightly. “No, Mycroft. I don't think I'll do that. I think I'll just head home now, so if you'll excuse me-”

“Sherlock will already know why I did what I did, John.” Mycroft hissed. “He’ll have worked it all out long ago, and he'll understand the plan, and why it was necessary. I just need to explain my reasons, make him see that I had no-”

“No _what_?” John stormed, gesturing angrily. “No _choice_? You know what? Maybe Sherlock has worked it out, but I don't actually care. I have no idea what excuse you could invent to excuse something like that and I don't want to know, thank you.” He turned, ready to walk away. “Sherlock doesn't want you in his life, and that’s good enough for me. So Mycroft, take the hint, and stay away from us!

Mycroft, suddenly seething, actually grabbed John's arm, and held him, a little too tightly, as he tried to move away. John eyed Mycroft, and then gazed down at the hold the other man had on his arm.

“Let go of me, you bastard.”

Mycroft, somewhat reluctantly, released John, but stepped closer to him, getting right into his space. 

John glared hatefully back, unwavering. “What do you want?”

“I want you to convince Sherlock to talk to me, John.”

John was stunned, and he showed it. “Wow,” he exclaimed. “Are you actually stupid, Mycroft?”

Mycroft eyes' flashed dangerously. “Don't test me, doctor. Not now. Sherlock listens to you-”

“Not so much any more,” John spat. “Thanks to you.”

Mycroft didn't give in. “It's for his own good. You must be able to see that?”

John shrugged. “Even if I did agree, which I'm don't, Sherlock hates you. Why should he go anywhere near you?”

“I want this all to be over as much as you do.” Mycroft told him, with a sigh. “Sadly, and I know this will be hard, but that can only happen once Sherlock faces up to everything. I need to explain why I put him through all of that, in the asylum.”

“And you honestly think that he'll want to hear what you have to say?”

Mycroft furrowed his brow. “Of course. Sherlock will be craving answers, and I have those for him. And for you and Lestrade too.

John scoffed. “Well, tough, because I'm not interested. And I know for a fact that Greg won't go anywhere near you either.”

Mycroft smiled at that. His smugness made John's blood boil. “I think he will.”

“Oh yes? Why?”

“Because he wants his job back, perhaps?”

John actually chuckled in disgust. “Basically, you're going to blackmail him, then?” He leaned closer to the taller man. “You know what? You make me sick, Mycroft.”

Mycroft continued to glare back. His face betrayed no emotion as he stood there, waiting for John to crack first.

Sure enough, John could hold back no longer. He would say what he needed to say, and to Hell with the consequences.

“I don't get you,” John spat. “You watched a man, _your own brother_ , being tortured and abused. You stood by and _watched_ , Mycroft. He told me that he asked you for help, and you ignored him. Whatever you might think, nothing you can say to Sherlock, or show him, will change anything.” He moved back. “Sherlock won't give you the time of day, and I for one don't blame him.”

Finally, Mycroft betrayed a tiny flicker of emotion.

“That's where you're wrong, John. I do wonder just how well you truly know your 'best friend'.

John glowered, and then pushed past the other man, throwing a furious, “Just leave me alone, Mycroft. Leave us both alone,” over his shoulder as he hurried away.

XXX

John didn't relax as he rushed home as fast as he could, turning heads from people as he went hurrying past, but he didn't care. He didn't care how strange he looked, or even if he bumped into anyone, he knew that he couldn't trust a soul, and wouldn't be safe until he was home. Even then, Mycroft could still get to him. He checked over his shoulder for the hundredth time as he broke into a run for the last half a mile. He couldn't see anyone suspicious but he knew that meant nothing. Mycroft was always watching. And now, he needed something from John and the scared doctor was certain the 'other Holmes' would not give up until John changed his mind and agreed to help him.

That wasn't going to happen. Not this time. John would never let Sherlock down again.

Hearing a noise from behind him, John quickened his pace, turning down a side road, taking a short cut. His heart was thumping as he dashed across a road, jumping when he heard a car horn.

He scolded himself silently for being so panicky. He used to have such a calm head, he had been in the army, for Christ's sake! He knew how to bottle his fear and keep it in check. Just what the hell had happened to him? 

John took a left, making his way down a small alley, and at last, he found himself back in Baker Street. As he hurried to his home, still checking for any prying eyes, he unlocked the front door and pushed it open. He leaned his head against the door, taking deep breaths. Once he was ready, he turned and was startled by Mrs Hudson, who was standing in the entrance, watching him, wearing her hat and coat, clearly about to head out. He smiled at her warmly.

“Hi, Mrs Hudson. You okay?”

She returned his smile, and replied with a chirpy. “Hello John, how was your day?” but there was a nervousness about her, an uncertainty, which instantly concerned John. 

“Everything al right?” He enquired softly.

“Of course,” she told him. “A friend of mine is a little poorly, that's all. I'm going to check on her.”

John frowned. “Anything I can do?”

“Oh no, it’s nothing too serious,” she said hurriedly. “She's just feeling a little sorry for herself so I thought I'd go round and cheer her up.” She quickly glanced upstairs. “And seeing as how I'm little use around here-”

At that, John looked up sharply. He knew that tone. Mrs Hudson was upset and had probably been insulted. And it didn't take a 'great detective' to figure out by whom...

“What's Sherlock done?” John enquired, at once.

Mrs Hudson flushed. “Oh, nothing, doctor. It's not his fault, is it? After everything he's been through-”

“Mrs Hudson,” John snapped, a little too sharply. “Tell me what's happened.”

The old lady paused, and then sagged her shoulders, shaking her head sadly. “I'd hardly seen him all day,” she muttered, so quietly that John had to lean in to hear her. “I took him up some dinner, and knocked on his door, and he told me to go away. I probably should have listened but you know what I'm like, never taking the hints, so I called to him, and told him he needed to eat before he wasted away, and then he – he...”

She broke off, covering her mouth with her hand. John moved closer to her, putting his arm around her, attempting to comfort her. “Go on, Mrs Hudson. It's okay.”

Mrs Hudson gave herself a little shake, and then continued. “He open his door, shouted at me, swearing, took hold of the tray and threw it against the wall. He was so angry, doctor. I'd  never seen him in such a rage. He told me to get the hell out, I was so frightened...” She began to cry softly, and John felt the fury building inside of him. He didn't mind if Sherlock took his anger and hate out on him, but on Mrs Hudson? John wasn't going to put up with that.

“Where is he now?” John snapped.

She flinched. “Still in his room. I really think it's best to just leave him for now though, John.”

“Bugger that.” John hissed. “He can shout and scream at me all he wants, but you? Nope. Not having it.”

She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “He hardly ever touches his food, doctor. Never comes out of his room. I really think he's going backwards, not getting better. Can't you get him some help?

John shrugged. “Take him back to hospital, you mean? What good will that do, you know he hates the place. Besides,” he murmured, more to himself; “He'd probably attack some poor nurse and get himself arrested...”

Mrs Hudson sighed, and then held up her hands in surrender. “We have to do something for him, John.” She reached out and took his hand. “You need to talk to him, John. He'll listen to you.”

John glanced away. “I'm not so sure any more.”

She patted his hand. “I won't be long. Take care.”

And with that, she went quickly took her leave, heading out into the icy night air, leaving John alone with his dark thoughts.

After taking a moment to compose himself, John walked quietly up the stairs, pushing open the door to his, and Sherlock's flat. He went inside, slipping off and throwing his jacket to one side.

“Sherlock?” He called, nervously.

Sherlock didn't answer him. It was all so very eerily quiet. John walked over to Sherlock's bedroom door, hesitated for a moment, and then knocked.

Again, nothing.

John cleared his throat.

“Sherlock? Can I come in? I'd like a word.”

Silence greeted him. John frowned.

With a quick shake of his head, he tried the door, only to find it locked.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, no longer patient. He wanted to know what this was about. “Open this door!” When Sherlock still refused to grace John with a reply, the Doctor shouted. “Open it, or I'll break it down. Up to you!”

Suddenly, he heard the click of the door being unbolted, and he stepped back. The door swung open and Sherlock stood in the entrance, watching him. John blinked uncertainly. The hate, rage, and primarily and most worryingly, distrust in Sherlock's eyes made him go cold inside. He shivered involuntarily.

Sherlock merely continued to look on for a few seconds, and then he pushed past John, heading into the living room, where he grabbed his long trench coat, and his scarf, and threw them over his arm. Then, he retreated to his room, and picked up a large holdall off of his bed. He didn't look at John again. His intentions were clear. He obviously intended to go somewhere, and not just for a few days either...

John suddenly felt sick.

“What's going on?” He demanded, trying to keep his calm, but failing.

Sherlock didn't even look at him. He just continued to make his way to the door. John tried again. “Sherlock? Where are you going?”

At that, the other man did turn, and he gave him a disdainful look.

“I'm leaving, John.”

John's blood ran cold. “Why?” He whispered.

Sherlock actually smirked. “Because I have nothing to stay here for any more.” 

His friend stared at him, open mouthed, his words actually cutting him to the bone. Sherlock gave him one last, hateful look, and then marched to the door, opened it, and in the next breath, was heading down the stairs, towards the front door, and out of John's life.

After a moment, John recovered. He would not stand by and let this happen. Grabbing his own jacket and throwing it on, he gave chase, skidding to a halt just behind Sherlock, who had just reached the door.

“Sherlock,” John said quickly. “I don't know what the hell this is all about, or where you think you're going, but it's not safe-”

Sherlock chuckled coldly. “Safe? I'm never safe.”

“You are with me.”

At that, Sherlock turned to face John. His expression was unreadable. “Is that right?”

John blinked. “Of course it is! Sherlock, please. Just come upstairs, and we'll talk.”

Sherlock didn't budge. “Why?”

John bristled. “Because I want to know what is going on in your head! Especially how you can take this all out on Mrs Hudson. She's old, Sherlock. And now she's scared. You had no right to-”

“I'll send a message to Mrs Hudson, apologising.” Sherlock whispered. “Explain my reasons for moving out. Until then, tell her I'm sorry.”

He put his hand on the latch.

“Sherlock,” John tried again, his tone desperate. “Where the hell are you going to go? You don't have any one.”

“I don't need any one.”

“Yes you do. Tell me where you're going.”

There was a pause. Then Sherlock repeated. “Why?”

“Because I flaming well care about you!” John erupted. “Christ only knows why!”

Another cold smile. “Or is so you can rush off and tell my brother where to find me, maybe?”

John stopped dead. He stared at Sherlock stupidly. At last, he replied, very softly; “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock didn't respond for a second. Then, very carefully, he slipped his hand in his pocket, pulled out his phone and handed it to John, with the words; “Check the texts.”

John, now completely confused, tapped on the handset, searching for Sherlock's most recent text. Finding it, and opening it, he didn't recognise the number it was from. He selected it, and waited for the text to load. He read the message quickly, his panic rising. He glanced at Sherlock.

The message read. “ _FYI. Told you so. M._ ”

“Look at the picture, John.” Sherlock instructed, simply.

John, that pit of fear in his stomach growing with every passing second, did as he was told. His heart stopped. The picture, as clear as anything, was a photo of him and Mycroft, taken during their very recent meeting. And judging by their facial expressions and body language in the picture, with Mycroft leaning in and John watching him with an intense look, they both appeared very friendly.

“Cosy, isn't it?” Sherlock muttered.

John looked up slowly and stared at Sherlock, dread filling him, making him shudder. Sherlock, his eyes narrowed, glared right back. John shuddered at the hatred he saw in that gaze. Finally, Sherlock spoke up. 

“I was correct the first time, wasn't I John? I don't have friends.” He smiled, coldly. “None.”

“Let me explain.” John whispered. “It's not how-

“It looks?” Sherlock finished, with a cold smile. “I don't care, to be honest with you.” He jabbed accusatory finger at John. “You're no different to the rest of them. I was a fool to think that you were.” He shook his head slightly. “Moriarty was right. You're not worth my time.”

John couldn't help himself. So enraged, he balled his hand into a fist, and punched Sherlock hard in the face. Sherlock's head whipped round to one side, and he breathed harshly, stunned by the sudden and somewhat unexpected blow. Finally, he turned to face John once more, and when John saw the smug expression, it took all of his self control not to hit the maddening man again. 

“Get out of my way,” Sherlock told him, his quiet tone lined with danger.

“No,” John retorted. “You're not going anywhere.”

“Do you want me to force you to move, John?”

John gritted his teeth. “Like to see you try.”

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice. He seized hold of John's jacket, and attempted to throw him, literally hurl him, out of his path. John fought for all he was worth, grappling with Sherlock, until they were literally wrestling with each other, each grunting and gasping in the other's ear.

And then, before either one of them truly knew what was happening, their violent encounter had been taken over by their passion, and they were suddenly kissing, both of them fighting for dominance over the other.

After forcing his tongue into the other man's mouth, Sherlock apparently regained his senses, and leaned back slightly, confused and scared, his eyes fixated on John's. “What is this?” He breathed. “Do you want to use me too?”

John gaped at him, and then took hold of Sherlock's hand. “No.”

He grabbed at Sherlock then, pulling him closer once more. Again, their lips met and they kissed, both their eyes tightly closed as they all but devoured one another.

With a moan, Sherlock pulled away, and actually pushed John away from him. He trembled, as his eyes bored in the other man's.

John stepped closer to him again. “It's okay,” he soothed. “It's all okay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. This was too much, too soon. The memory of Moriarty, and every sordid act he had performed with the psychopath was still hanging over him like a black cloud, and he couldn't see a way of getting through it. It wasn't only Moriarty either. Just scratch at the surface, and Sherlock was suddenly back in _that_ room, on _that_ night, laying beneath a man using him as if he were nothing but a whore.

A freak. _Worthless._

He knew this was neither Moriarty nor Anderson but it didn't change how Sherlock felt. The past, he couldn't escape it, couldn't get away from it. And he had begun to fear that he never would.

He flinched violently when he felt John gently stroking his hand. He snapped his eyes open again, and pulled away from his friend, as if he had burnt him.

He managed only a tiny whisper. “I can't do this, John.” 

John's expression was patient and comforting. “It's okay, Sherlock,” he replied. “Everything's going to be okay.”

Sherlock chuckled grimly and shook his head. “How can you think that? Look at me. I'm broken beyond repair. And, between them, Moriarty and Anderson have made sure I'll never be whole again.”

“You're wrong,” John muttered. “And I don't often get to say that.”

Sherlock let out a low moan in response. “I have to leave, John.”

“No,” John told him, firmly. “You're not running away from this this time, Sherlock. Neither of us are. We have to talk about this, deal with it.” He grabbed Sherlock's hand and clung on. “I'm not going to let them beat you. Beat us. Moriarty sent you that picture knowing what your reaction would be. He wants you away from me. You're going to keep on fighting, do you hear me? And I'm staying here, beside you. I'm not leaving you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was peering at the man he had once believed to be his only friend now, a look of pure disbelief on his face. “Why do you care about me so much?”

John was visibly put out by that comment, but tried to swallow his annoyance back down again. Typical Sherlock. He didn't understand why he was worth fighting for. Well, John would just have to right on and show him. Prove to him that there was still something inside, something worth saving. He tightened his hold on his friend's hand.

“I know you don't understand, Sherlock. I know you wished I'd just give up, go away, and let you block all this out. Let you bury all the pain, hate and betrayal you feel, particularly for Mycroft-”

Sherlock's expression darkened at the mere mention of his brother's name, and he pulled his hand away from John's grip. “I told you,” he snapped. “I don't want to hear that bastard's name. And I meant it.”

John nodded hurriedly. “I know, Sherlock. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't call you and tell you the second I'd seen Mycroft. I should have known Moriarty would use it against me. But you know I'm not going to betray you again, don't you? You know it, somehow, deep inside. That's why you're still here! We have to move on, Sherlock. But don't you see you have to face up to _everything_ that's happened to you or we'll never be able to get past it!”

Sherlock glared stubbornly. “And what if I don't want to get past it? What if I just want to forget it ever happened at all?” He closed his eyes. “ _All_ of it?”

“Won't help,” John told him. “It'll never go away.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock snapped. “A bit like you then.” He leaned closer. “Unless I'm locked in an institution, of course. Do you know what they did to me, John? Do you know how it felt when they tortured and abused me? Where were you then, doctor? You care so much about me? Where were you when I needed you?” His anger grew as he continued to tear into the smaller man. “Where WERE you, John?”

“I'm sorry!” John could only whimper in response. “I'm so sorry.”

Sherlock snorted. “You're sorry. Good for you, John? Tell me though, what good is your sympathy to me? What good are _you_?”

John buried his face into his hands. “Jesus, Sherlock! I know I let you down. What can I say? What can I do to make it better?”

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. “You can leave me alone.”

John shook his head. “I'm not going to let you walk out of here.”

The taller man laughed humourlessly. “How are you going to stop me, John? Stamp on my foot?” 

John glared, and then shoved past Sherlock, standing between him and the front door. “You want to get past me?” He gestured to his friend. “Come on then. Hit me, beat the crap out of me, if it helps. We are going to get through this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stared at him, furiously. “Don't do this, John. Get out of the way.”

“No.”

“I'm warning you.”

“And let you do what?” John snapped, raising his voice. “Go back to him? Go running back to Moriarty? Because that’s what will happen, and you know it! You're addicted, addicted to the pain and the suffering! You don't need him!”

 _“Yes I do!_ ”

John stopped dead. Finally, they were getting somewhere. He stood, trembling slightly, trying to catch his breath, as he regarded the still very much tormented man before him.

“Why do you need him?” John whispered. “What does he give you that I can't?”

Sherlock seethed quietly. He didn't want to have this conversation. He was itching just to get out of there and run. Away from John and his painful, probing questions.

Because the questions hurt.

He balled his hands into fists.

“You know what he gives me.” He eyes bored into John's. “You _saw_ , didn't you?”

At that, John felt sick. He shook his head, anger now coursing through him. Is that how Sherlock saw himself? Is that how messed up he was? Did he really think himself to be that cheap and worthless?

John swallowed. He already knew the answer to that, didn't he?

Thanks to Anderson, that is exactly what Sherlock thought.

“Christ's sake, Sherlock,” John groaned. “There are other ways. You don't have to fuck a psychopath to _feel._ ”

At that, Sherlock frowned. “I can hurt him, break him, make him bleed,” he muttered. “And it doesn't matter. It's only Moriarty.”

John narrowed his eyes at that.

“Don't you get it?” John hissed, edging closer. “It's hurting _you_. It's breaking _you_. Moriarty knew exactly what he was doing. You thought you had a way out, a chance to be the one with the power but he was in control, Sherlock. Every time he bent over for you, you were losing another little part of what makes you _you_. He didn't let you fuck him out of the goodness of his heart! It was all about beating you, making you _his._ With that bastard, it's always about _winning_!”

Sherlock was gazing at the impassioned man, breathing hard. He looked down at the ground and, for a few glorious moments, John thought he had gotten through to him.

But then:

“You don't understand, John. And now I realise that you never will. I can't stay here with you any more. I'll contact Mrs Hudson in a few days, to deal with the remaining rent I owe her and also about collecting my things. I'm sure the two of you will find a replacement for me soon enough.”

He held his hand to John, who gaped at him, open mouthed.

“You can't just _leave_ , Sherlock-”

“I can do whatever I want, John. Let’s end this on good terms. Goodbye.”

Despite the turmoil he was feeling, John chuckled. This whole situation was beyond ridiculous. He couldn't deal with this, couldn't face it. All he knew was, he was not going to stand aside and let the man he cared about more than anything else in the world walk away from him.

And he would do whatever it took.

“This isn't going to happen.” John threw at him, allowing his anger to boil over. “I'm not moving away from this door so I don't know how you're planning to walk out of here-”

A coldness spread across Sherlock's face. 

“Don't make me hurt you.”

John raised himself up to his full height. “Is that what you need? Is that what will make you stay? Go ahead.”

Sherlock pursed his lips together.

“John, don't do this-”

“Come on, _Holmes!_ ” John yelled. “I'm not made of glass! Moriarty let you take out your hate and anger on him right? He didn't fight back?” He gestured at Sherlock. “Well, I can do that too! Come on, do your worst!”

Sherlock was shaking, his fury evident on his face. Still, he didn't move.

John shoved him, only adding to Sherlock's rage. Sherlock stumbled backwards, glaring daggers at the smaller man, clenching his fists.

“What's the matter, Sherlock?” John stormed. “Am I not a viable option for you? Can't you fuck me like you did him?”

Sherlock was clearly desperately trying to stay in control and he was losing the fight.

John had lost his own fight long ago, so scared was he that he actually could lose Sherlock, he no longer cared where this path could take them. If hate and anger was what Sherlock needed, if they were all that was left for him, then John could provide plenty of both.

“Come on!” He screamed into Sherlock's face, showering him with spit. “What's the matter? Are you too weak, too scared to show me what a big man you are? To show me why you needed him more than me so fucking much? To show me what you're _fucking_ worth?”

“ _You want to know how worthless you are?_ ”

“No,” Sherlock growled, grabbing John by the throat, startling the other man. “I'm _not_ worthless.”

John grimaced and gasped for breath. Fear was mixing in with the anger now but he had achieved what he had wanted: an emotional response from Sherlock. He had to keep going, couldn't let his panic stop him now. “Then show me,” he managed, weakly. “Show me what you're good for.”

“ _You want to know what you are good for?_ ”

With a scream of pure hatred, Sherlock grabbed John with both hands, and dragged him bodily back up the stairs, back to their rooms. John struggled half-heartedly, putting up more of a show of a fight then actually trying to escape, knowing that while Sherlock's attention was focused solely on him, he wasn't heading out of the door and out of John's life.

Sherlock pulled John into their living room, throwing him to the floor. “I'll give you what you want, you sick fuck!” He spat, as he pulled the door shut behind them. John laid there, winded, as Sherlock stood over him, glaring down hatefully. John shivered to see his friend's face. It was as if Sherlock wasn't there any more, he had disappeared, consumed by the torment and rage that was always lying in wait, just below the surface. No matter how much he tried to bury the pain and angst, they were always there, just biding their time. And now, because of the dangerous game John had played, that cocktail of emotions was now aimed solely at him.

And now, John was truly scared.

“Sherlock...” he whispered, trying to reach out to his friend.

The other man ignored him, instead hurriedly pulling off his belt, and throwing it to one side. He then quickly lowered his trousers, and grabbed once again for John, desperate fingers clutching at the smaller man, trying to rip of his clothes too. John moaned softly, edging away from the fuming detective, only to find himself being dragged back.

“Stop a second,” John pleaded. “Sherlock, just wait-”

“Shut up!” Sherlock hissed. “Just keep your mouth shut, you bastard.”

John's eyes widened. There was blackness in his friend's eyes now, a darkness that made John's blood turn to ice. Did Sherlock really want to hurt him? Could he even _see_ John? Was Sherlock even still _in there_?

Sherlock again seized John's throat, and shook him like a rag doll. “You know I don't like it when you play your little games with me, Jim.” He snarled. “I know what you want. What you always want. Now, shut the fuck up, there's a good boy. Just lie there, and take it!”

John blinked. Wait. _Jim?_

Sherlock was so far gone, so trapped in his own memories and dreams, he truly believed that John was Moriarty.

He was about to do to him exactly what he had Jim. John suddenly realised this had gone far too far. And he had to stop it, if he still could.

“I'm not Moriarty,” John said quietly, as calmly as he could. “It's me, Sherlock. It's John.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Is this the new game, Jim? Don't waste my time. You know what you have to do.”

John grunted in pain when Sherlock suddenly took hold of the back of his head, and forced him forwards, towards his groin. John had no choice but to take Sherlock's hardness into his mouth. His eyes bulged at the realisation of what was happening as he tried to control his breathing. He had Sherlock's penis in his mouth. How had they even got here? He then concentrated on what he knew he liked, deciding that if he was going to go through with this, like he had little choice, then he was damned adamant that he was going to give Sherlock the best blow job of his life.

John, moaning softly, grabbed Sherlock's penis tightly and began to stroke it hard, as he twisted his shaft with one hand. He slowly started sucking on the head of his friend's penis, curling his tongue around it, twisting it in circles, and then carefully licking it as he stared up at Sherlock, who gazed back at him with lust filled eyes. 

“Jim,” Sherlock whispered. “You're different...”

John stopped, pulling back. He wheezed slightly, and then wiped at his mouth. “I'm not Jim, that's why,” he replied. “I'm John, Sherlock. Snap out of it.”

Sherlock seemed to watch him for a moment longer, his need and arousal clear, when he abruptly once again grabbed John roughly, pushing him to the ground and holding him in place, as he lined his cock up against the other man's small hole. “John's not coming.” Sherlock muttered a terrifying wildness about him now. “He's not coming for me. He doesn't care about me any more.”

John turned his head to one side at that, trying to block out the insane look in those beautiful eyes. “I care more than anything else in this whole fucking world, Sherlock.” He whimpered. “Please stop... _Please wake up._ ”

Sherlock laughed. “Still trying to trick me, Jim? Still trying to mess with my head? Well, it's not going to work. You've used your mouth perfectly, for once, so now I want you to do as I told you, and _keep it shut!_ ” And then, with a cold smile and no further lubrication, or consideration for the man laying beneath him, Sherlock forced his way inside.

John cried out, his eyes screwed shut, still not wanting to see that crazed look on Sherlock's face as his best friend defiled him.

Sherlock stared down at the face below him, enjoying the power he once again had over the smaller man. He took great pleasure in each cry he gained from Moriarty. This time, it felt different. Jim was squirming beneath him, whimpering, in a way he had never done before. Sherlock pulled out, and pushed back in, smiling as his enemy once again let out a low cry.

“Does it hurt, Jim?” Sherlock hissed. “Good.”

John shook his head desperately from side to side, his whole being trembling in shock. “Sherlock, please. I need you to listen to me. It's me. It's John...”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, and then shook his head, surprised. Why was Moriarty _still_ playing this sick game? Why was he trying to make him believe he was John? Jim hated John, he wanted Sherlock all to himself. Why would he-

Sherlock paused. Why wasn't Moriarty laughing? Jim had always laughed that ridiculous high laugh of his, gleeful and excited, as Sherlock had taken him.

Why wasn't he laughing?

Something clicked inside of Sherlock. A mist cleared. He stared down at the man he was fucking, the man he was _destroying_ and he froze, still inside his victim.

He saw the tears first, saw what he had done.

Done to the man he -

_John._

“God,” he whimpered. “Oh God.”

He felt sick, horrified.

“Sherlock,” John moaned. “Wait...”

“I,” Sherlock gasped, not even hearing John's words. “I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry.”

He pulled out of John as carefully as he could, and stumbled backwards, mouth open in shock, still staring at other man. His best friend. What the hell had he done?

“Sherlock,” John whispered, trying to move, despite the pain. “It's okay.”

The detective covered his face with his hands, and broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Something he had never done before.

He'd hurt John. He'd _raped_ John.

“Sherlock, you have to look at me. Please.”

“I hate myself for what I've done to you,” Sherlock replied, refusing to do as John had asked, and look at him. 

“I _want_ you, Sherlock...”

Sherlock trembled. He moved his hands away, and stared up at John, disbelief written all over his face.

“What?”

“I want this. I want you.” He grabbed for Sherlock's hand, and clung on. “Take me”

“John-”

“ _I want you._ ” A moment passed as the two men gazed at each other. “Please.”

Sherlock bit his lip nervously, unsure as to whether he should give in to his own, and John's desires, or if he should put an end to this now, before he allowed it to go any further, and they both crossed the point of no return. He stared down at John for a second longer, John gazing back at him, unblinking. Finally, Sherlock made his choice. 

Sherlock lowered himself carefully, covering his best friend's smaller body with his own. “Are you sure about this?” His hand moved lower, and he found what he was looking for, gently seizing John's cock, and beginning to stroke it, slightly smirking as John writhed and gasped at his touch. He purred in John's ear, kissing is ear lobe, driving the man ever more crazy with desire. “I have to know that you mean it, John. Tell me.”

“I need you, Sherlock.” John moaned in response. “Please.”

This time, Sherlock used his finger, pushing into John's passage, preparing and stretching him. He watched John the whole time, ready to stop the second John showed any worrying signs of pain, and although John did whimper and flinch from the burning sensation, he kept a tight hold on Sherlock's hand, squeezing, letting Sherlock know that he could handle it. More than that. He _wanted_ this.

This time, Sherlock pushed in gently, allowing John time to adjust to his presence. John writhed uncontrollably, tightening his hold on Sherlock's hand and throwing his head back, moaning helplessly. Once Sherlock was all the way inside, and he knew his actions weren't hurting his friend, he pulled out and then pushed back in. John did cry out, and Sherlock froze, eyeing him intently.

“All right?” Sherlock breathed.

“Keep going.” John groaned. “Don't you dare stop.”

Sherlock actually grinned. This felt so different to every other time. It was just as intense but in a whole other, completely better, way. He continued to thrust into John, glorifying in the feeling of being so intimate with the other man. He actually felt like the two of them were connected, and it was an electrifying feeling.

He was experiencing something very different to the pain, hate and rage he had only felt before during his sexual encounters.

What was this? What was making him tremble to his very core? He didn't want to stop, didn't want to let go of John. He wanted more. He wanted _everything._

Sherlock grabbed hold of John’s slick hips as tightly as he could without hurting him, pressing himself forward and holding still a moment after he was in. He heard John cry out at the intrusion, pushing his backside back as he pushed forward. Sherlock took only a moment to check himself, making sure he wouldn’t come in that instant, before drawing out slowly and slamming back in hard, making John groan helplessly at the feeling. He speeded up, giving John every part of himself that he had left to give, angling his hips to hit John's prostate on each thrust, making the smaller man cry out and claw at the ground beneath his hands, and push back ever harder.

John, giving small cries as Sherlock continued to pound into him, hitting that pleasure spot inside of him every single time, dropped a hand to his groin and began fisting his cock in time to the punishing thrusts. After a few more squeezing tugs on his cock, John cried out hoarsely one last time, and came all over his hand and chest, his hips shaking of their own accord. 

His chest ached from panting so much as he felt Sherlock continue to stab through him, pounding into his body, before pausing suddenly, and then John felt the warmth of Sherlock’s cum flooding his insides. They both lay there, not daring to speak, as they attempted to bring their breathing back under control. John, contented, closed his eyes, feeling his lover's seed trickling slowly out and oozing down the backs of his thighs, as he stared up in awe, searching Sherlock's exhausted, but peaceful, face.

Sherlock, utterly spent, gasped for breath as he laid his head down, hair wet from the sweat and effort, gently against John's chest. John, also fighting to control his breathing and with every part of him tingling from the incredible sensations, put his arms around Sherlock and held him tightly. They stayed like that for some precious seconds, simply treasuring the moment together, Sherlock eyes tightly closed a small smile of satisfaction on his lips as John leant down and kissed his forehead.

At the tender gesture, Sherlock suddenly stopped, his smile fading slowly, and his eyes snapped open. His gaze met John's, who looked back, a hint of uncertainty suddenly sweeping him when he saw the panic in those eyes. Sherlock murmured softly under his breath, and shook his head, beginning to pull up and away from John.

John clung on, not wanting him to go anywhere. “It's okay, Sherlock.” He told him. “We're fine.”

“No,” Sherlock muttered. And then repeated, almost like a mantra; “No, no.”

Still shaking his head, and babbling unintelligently, he rose quickly to his feet, holding onto the wall for support. “Shouldn't have done that,” he muttered. “That was a mistake.” He pulled his boxers and trousers back up, and then swung round, searching for his large coat.

“I have to go...” 

John's face darkened. There was no way he was just going to lay there, on his back, and let that happen. 

“Sherlock,” he snapped. “Listen-”

“No,” Sherlock whispered, meeting John's gaze for a second. “I'm sorry, John. This is all my fault, I know that, but I shouldn't have let that happen. I'm sorry.”

And with that, Sherlock made for the door, and rushed out. John, not quite believing what was happening, heard the front door being pulled open as Sherlock made his hasty exit, and then slammed behind the panicking man. John pulled himself up gingerly, hissing from the pain the movement caused. He would not have this. Who the hell did Sherlock think John was? His whore? He thought he could just use him like that, have his way and then run? No chance. Sherlock should know John better than that. He should have had more respect for him.

Or any respect...

John's pain and humiliation only grew as he struggled round the room, fixing his trousers, and pulling on a jacket, gasping from the effort. God, he was sore. It had hurt, yes, and had been desperate and rough, but Sherlock being so close to him, being inside of him, had been the most incredible feeling of John's life. He had never felt so close to another human being in his life. It had just felt so right, having that connection with his best friend. John was confused, hurt and angry. He wasn't gay, had never had sexual feelings towards men before meeting Sherlock, but regardless, he had given himself up completely to Sherlock, and had done so happily. And now, Sherlock had shoved everything John had given back in his face. Did he have no idea what it took John to put himself in such a compromising position? Did he care at all?

 _'I guess I have my answer to that'_ , John thought furiously as he stumbled down the stairs, praying that he would get outside before Mrs Hudson returned. He really didn't need her concerned questions at that moment. 

He made his way out of the flat, moaning with discomfort. He called out to Sherlock but there was no response. He walked out, having no idea which way to go, deciding to make his way around to the back of the building, where he knew it was more quiet, more secluded. 

He didn't have to look for long, or go far. As he limped along, he heard a soft moaning, and he frowned. Walking past a wall, he saw Sherlock, slumped down an alley. The doctor letting out a sigh recognised this alley well. It was where Sherlock had first told him about Anderson's attack on him. The fact that Sherlock would run to the exact same place now filled John with sadness. 

John walked up to Sherlock carefully, as not to alarm him. Sherlock didn't react, he merely crouched on the ground, trembling, his head in his hands.

“Sherlock?” John whispered, all the anger and fury bubbling inside him subsiding when he saw his best friend's pitiful appearance. “Why did you do that? Why did you run?”

“I'm sorry, John;” Sherlock replied, still hiding his face. “I know my behaviour is disgusting. I'm not worth your concern. Please go back inside.”

John took a step forward, frowning when Sherlock edged further into the alley, moving further away from John. “You are worth it,” John told him. “We have to talk about this, Sherlock. There's no getting away from this, or what we just did.”

“Talk?” The taller man repeated, a cold tone to his voice. He looked up, and John shuddered to look into his pained eyes. Suddenly, Sherlock rounded on John, grabbing him by his jacket, and pulling him close. “I _raped_ you, John.”

John flinched. “No, you didn't.”

“I treated you like him, like Moriarty. Why don't you hate me?”

“Because I wanted it. I want to be with you, Sherlock. Can't you see that?” 

Sherlock stared at him, not understanding. “Why?”

John took a deep breath, and steadied himself, before replying: “Because I love you.”

Sherlock blinked. “But you're not gay,” he replied, softly.

“I realise that, Sherlock.” John said, quickly. “I don't get this either. But I know I wanted to have sex with you, and it was unbelievable, just perfect. Don't ask me how, especially as this is you we're talking about...” His eyes sparkled as he teased the stunned man. “But I am in love with you.”

The other man said nothing, he just continued to stare at John, undoubtedly searching his face, trying to find answers that John was unable to give.

John, feeling suddenly so uncomfortable under Sherlock's intense gaze, grew impatient. “For crying out loud! Say something will you?”

Sherlock glanced away, averting his gaze from John's for a few seconds, and then finally met his best friend's worried look once again.

“John-” He began, “I-”

But he didn't get to finish his sentence.

_“Am I interrupting something?”_

Both John and Sherlock looked up quickly. Mycroft was standing in front of them, his hand right hand clasping his large umbrella. Sherlock let out a low chuckle, and then quickly turned, only to find his other escape route was cut off by two, very sinister looking, suited men, who slowly began to moved toward Sherlock.

John, glaring hatefully at Mycroft, moved to stand in front of Sherlock, attempting to shield him from his older brother.

Mycroft noticed this, and shook his head. “Really gentlemen. What do you think will happen to you?”

Sherlock actually laughed. “Not taking me off to hospital this time then, Mycroft.”

His brother smiled. “No Sherlock, not this time. I have somewhere else to escort you to this time. You and the good doctor, if he wishes to accompany us.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You think we'd actually go with you?” He spat.

A dark look flashed across Mycroft's face. “Yes I do, John. If you, like myself, want answers, and for all this unpleasantness to be over, then you will come with me.”

Sherlock and John exchanged confused looks, but still didn't move.

Mycroft sighed in frustration. “I'm sorry, I don't think I'm making myself clear.” He lowered his voice. “The point I was trying to make was, you will come with me now. Both of you.”

John shrugged helplessly. What choice did they have?

“Please hurry, boys.” Mycroft said, more pleasantly. “We have to walk to the cars, it’s quite a way, and it really does look like rain.” He nodded to Sherlock, who glared at him, as if he was ready to kill.

“After you, brother.”

TBC


	16. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, here's the conclusion for you. Sorry about the small cliff-hanger, I'm planning to get back to this series once series 3 has aired. Thanks so much for all the support for this and Worthless... means a lot. Enjoy!

Mycroft, Sherlock and John were walking down the street together, Mycroft though ensuring that he kept slightly ahead of the other two. Despite their continuous questions, he wouldn't divulge where he was taking them. John was certain that Sherlock had worked out what their destination was a few minutes into their journey, but he had simply told John to be quiet when John had asked him to share his knowledge. Finally, at the end of his tether, John had snapped:

 _“Will one of you tell me where we're going please_?”

Sherlock had replied first, informing John that they were going to a factory not far from Waterloo. When John, to his regret, had asked Sherlock how he knew that, Sherlock had merely rolled his eyes. This action had prompted John to mutter: “Typical, don't tell me then. That's absolutely fine. Everyone knows but me, as usual...” Both Mycroft and Sherlock had been obviously amused by his irritated rant, and it helped to keep the mood lighter than it should have been.

At last, they saw a large factory in the distance and John let out a sigh of relief. At least the long walk was over. But then it dawned on him that neither he nor Sherlock knew what awaited them, and his fears increased once more.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was staring at the building they had stopped outside of.

“Maybe get a taxi next time, Mycroft.”

“The walk has done us all good, Sherlock.”

“It might have helped your diet, yes. But neither myself or John were in need of the exercise." He glowered at his brother. “I'm still recovering from the hospital food.”

Mycroft's lips tightened at the comment but he didn't rise to it. Instead, he moved to the door, and paused. With his hand placed on the handle, he turned and met the questioning looks of both the two men waiting behind him. His gaze however lingered on Sherlock.

“It's time to tell you why you're here,” he said quietly.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “It's well past." 

“You are here, Sherlock,” Mycroft continued, without any hesitation; “Because Sebastian Moran is in there waiting, and he refused to give us any information relating to Moriarty unless he got to see you." Mycroft frowned grimly. “But you don't have to go inside. I don't intend to force you to do anything you don't want to do. The choice is yours.” 

Sherlock let out a cold chuckle at this, and then eyed Mycroft incredulously. He didn't know how to answer. He looked toward the warehouse entrance, and then looked away. 

Mycroft was watching him closely. “Would a cigarette help?” He mused.

John was fuming. “What are you playing at?”

Mycroft frowned. “Stay out of this, John-”

“You've got a nerve,” John snapped, and then placed a hand on Sherlock's arm. “Don't go in there, Sherlock. You're not ready for this.”

Sherlock looked down at the ground. Mycroft let out an impatient sigh. “I need your decision, Sherlock,” he said quietly. “Can you do this, or not?”

“Leave him alone!” John threw at Mycroft, and then gestured helplessly with his arms. “Am I the only sane man here? Am I the only one who can see that this is _not_ a good idea? Moran is a murdering psychopath and you're giving him Sherlock _again_?” He rounded on Mycroft furiously. “What's wrong with you, Mycroft? How can you do this to him?”

“Because he knows he has to,” Sherlock answered, his eyes still fixated on a spot on the ground. 

“As your doctor, Sherlock,” John told him, trying to remain calm. “And as your friend, I advise you to walk away from this.” He lowered his voice. “You don't have to be a part of these games any more. Lets just leave them to it and go home. You and me.”

Sherlock blinked, and then glanced over at his brother, apparently sizing him up. Mycroft stared steadily back. 

There was a pause as both John and Mycroft watched Sherlock silently, waiting for him to make his choice.

Finally, Sherlock turned to face his best friend. “I understand why you're worried John,” he told him; "And I do appreciate that you care.” He then turned to look at Mycroft. “But I'll do it.” 

Mycroft nodded, satisfied with Sherlock's reply.

John, on the other hand, was clearly unhappy but he couldn't do a thing about it. This was Sherlock's call, the whole thing was down to him, and John had no more right than Mycroft to tell Sherlock what he should or shouldn't do. And Sherlock had made his decision. Now, all John could do was support him, as usual. 

Mycroft pushed open the door, and then, with a nod to his two companions, the three of them walked in.

They found themselves in a big, empty room. Hurrying behind Mycroft, who strode toward the centre of the room, Sherlock and John gazed around the large space. There were men placed in all corners, all suited and booted. Their hands were kept behind their backs, each turning to look as the brothers and John entered. This was clearly a high security situation and John soon saw why. Sherlock, disregarding all the interest aimed at him, walked forward. Despite John's quiet complaints, he left his friend's side to stand beside his brother, his eyes locked on a very beaten, but certainly not defeated, Sebastian Moran. Moran stood in the centre of the large warehouse, two of Mycroft's men standing either side of him, watching his every move. Once Sherlock had joined his brother, the Colonel raised his eyes and fixed them both with a look of pure hatred.

If looks could kill, Sherlock and Mycroft would be finished.

Ignoring the tension, Mycroft took a step forward, and addressed his prisoner.

“So, Colonel Moran, you know why you're here, don't you?”

Moran glared daggers at Mycroft, but didn't reply.

Mycroft sighed, stepping closer. “You offered me a deal, Sebastian and now you have what you wanted. Sherlock is here, in front of you. Now, it's your turn. Talk to me. Where is Moriarty?”

Moran smirked. “As if I would ever betray James Moriarty to scum like you.”

Mycroft jerked his head. “I will ask you once more. Where is James Moriarty?”

Moran laughed, and then eyed Sherlock, his face darkening. Then, catching them all unawares, he let out a howl of rage, and snatching something out of his sock, he barged past Mycroft and lunged at Sherlock, slashing at him with a broken shard he had clutched in his right hand. Sherlock leapt back, letting out a low gasp, and then grabbed his would-be attacker by the arm, and gripped his hand painfully, forcing him to drop the concealed weapon. With his hand bent back at an awkward angle, Moran yelled out in anguish and tried to pull free of Sherlock's hold, including biting down on the other man's bare wrist. 

Sherlock yelped, and pulled his hand away. Moran laughed manically, and reached for him again. Before he was able to get another attack in, Mycroft's men regained control; tackling him to the ground, away from Sherlock. He lay at their feet, howling like a wounded dog. 

“Let go of me!” He shrieked. “Get your hands _off_ of me, you filth!"

Mycroft shook his head. “I don't think so, Colonel,” he purred. “I do think we need the straight jacket this time.”

Moran stilled at that, eyeing Mycroft with hatred, who merely smiled back.

In the course of the mêlée, John, having checked first of all that Sherlock was okay, managed to pick up the shard and began to examine it, but Mycroft quickly took it off of him, and popped into a clear evidence bag.

“Safer this way, as I think you'll find the blade is doused in poison, John,” Mycroft told him. “Sherlock would have been dead in minutes if he'd been cut.”

“You knew he had that?” John snapped.

Mycroft's expression was disdainful. “Of course.”

John balled his hands into fists. “So you were happy to put your brother's life in danger again? You make me sick, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Sherlock was never in any peril, John.”

“You're just prolonging the inevitable!” Moran spat, interrupting them. “He's on borrowed time as it is.”

John took a step toward Moran, but Mycroft held up a hand, stopping him.

“I have to thank you, Colonel.” Mycroft told Moran, with a smug smile. “You've certainly made my job a lot easier with this cowardly, unprovoked attack on an unarmed man.” He pointed up into the rafters, where they could clearly see a CCTV camera recording their every move. “There were those in positions of power, your friends in high places you could say, holding up my plans but now, they have no choice but to let me deal with a traitor as I see fit.” His eyes flashed. “There's no one to save you now, Sebastian.” 

Moran, struggling against the hold of the two suits, fought to get free.

“This is an outrage!” Moran shouted. “You can't do this, Holmes! You hear me?"

Mycroft ignored his words. “We'll be taking you to the airport tonight, Colonel, and then on to your new home.” His eyes were blazing. “And I've got just the cell for you...”

Moran screamed in fury, and Mycroft gave him a disdainful look. He then gestured to his men.

“Take him.”

As Mycroft's men surrounded the fuming Moran, they again managed to pin him down. The Colonel was fighting as hard as he could to get free of them, desperate to get at Sherlock once more. Sherlock stood away, with John, watching it all unfolding.

“You think you're special?” Moran was screaming, fighting as the straight jacket was pulled on to him, and tied. “You think you're a match for _him_? You can't fucking win this! You're a dead man, Sherlock Holmes! You're _dead_!” 

Mycroft watched as Moran, still spitting and snarling his insults at Sherlock, was eventually gagged, and then dragged from the room.

Once Moran had been removed, he approached Sherlock and John once more.

“Good,” he noted. “I have all the evidence I need to remove him to where he will get all the attention that he _deserves_.” He met Sherlock's look. “He'll soon tell me what I want to know.”

“You think so?” Sherlock grimaced, tending to his wounded hand. “He'll never give up Moriarty.”

His brother shrugged. 

“Well, I can be very persuasive.” He smiled over at John. “Isn't that right, doctor?”

John, knowing that this was a dig for when he had, stupidly, helped Mycroft against his brother, glared hatefully at Mycroft and then spoke to Sherlock, keeping his tone stead. “I've had enough of this. Shall we go?”

Sherlock smiled. “Sounds good to me.” He turned, and then glanced over when he heard John falling into step alongside him. 

Mycroft tutted in annoyance, hurriedly calling after Sherlock.

“Sherlock, wait. You must have worked out what I was doing, and why? You know how dangerous Moriarty is, and that he had to be caught. For the good of the country! I didn't have a choice-”

“You could have warned me,” Sherlock muttered.

“Yes, I could have done. I'm sorry I didn't, and I'm sorry for what you went through in that place.” His eyes narrowed. “Moran will pay for it. Trust me.” He then extended his hand to Sherlock. “And most importantly, I'm sorry I let Moriarty and Moran hurt you, and I still wasn't able to capture Moriarty at the end of it.”

Sherlock threw his brother a witheringly look, ignoring the hand he offered him. “I'm sorry too, Mycroft.” He then turned to John, and outstretched his hand. “Ready to go, John?”

John smiled with relief. “More than ready. You lead on.”

Sherlock walked forward but didn't get too far.

Mycroft swiftly moved in front of Sherlock once more, cutting him off, and his expression was somewhat pleading. “Please, Sherlock. Listen to me. I asked you to come here with more in mind than simply trapping Moran.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “Go on?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “This is about you as well, Sherlock. You need to move on too, of course past what Moran and Moriarty did to you, but not just them. I know why you are in such a delicate state-”

“Remember who you are talking to, Mycroft!” Sherlock hissed. “I'm not weak!”

Mycroft paused. “Why did you let Moriarty get so close to you, Sherlock? That was nothing to do with me; You were already in his hands, playing his game, giving yourself to him. Tell me why?”

“To feel!” Sherlock snarled. “I just wanted to feel something, okay?”

John let out a low moan, and buried his face into his hands.

Mycroft took no notice of him. He only addressed Sherlock.

He leaned forward, now imploring his brother. “All you could feel from him was hate and despair. It doesn't have to be that way. The mind games must stop, Sherlock, and I think I can help you do that. If you'll let me.”

Sherlock's eyes bored into his older brother's for a moment.

“I'm still listening.” He told him.

Mycroft smiled, and then called out an order. “Bring him in please!”

The doors were suddenly thrown open again and two suits marched into the room, bodily dragging a figure in along with them. They came to a spot in the centre of the room, and then threw their baggage to the floor, and it was from the groan the person managed that it only became clear this figure was a man. He looked old, frail, and it seemed entirely possible that he would have been too weak to have been able to walk in there unsupported.

The man curled up into a ball, his whole being shivering. He appeared utterly terrified.

Mycroft had not taken his eyes off of Sherlock.

Sherlock glared back at his brother for a moment, and then, it suddenly dawned on him who this “poor” man was. He stared questionably at Mycroft, who merely nodded in response.

Sherlock wanted to be sick. He turned his face away as he tried to control his emotions. 

Because the devastated man slumped on the ground before him was none other than Michael Anderson. His attacker. His rapist.

“Jesus...” John suddenly ground out, as it became very clear that he had worked out the truth too. He shook his head, with some disgust, and then stared down at the floor.

Sherlock, meanwhile, couldn't tear his eyes away from the trembling former policeman, naked apart from some old tatty trousers that he had apparently been presented with to protect his modesty, it was unlikely he'd been allowed to wear any clothes, wherever Mycroft had kept him. The first thing Sherlock noticed was that Anderson's head had been shaved. He was also unkempt and dirty, as if he hasn't had a wash for months. Maybe he hadn't. He had a few bruises on his arms and chest, but they could have been self-inflicted. Sherlock hadn't seen the man since he had held him captive at gunpoint, trying to escape the fate he had created for himself. Sherlock had allowed his brother to deal with the problem, to remove Anderson before Sherlock had been forced to endure the embarrassment of a trial. Something that would not have been good for Mycroft either, of course...

To Sherlock's surprise, as he saw the result of his brother's vengeance, he found that he felt nothing. Not fear, nor anger or hate toward the man that had hurt him so much, but neither did he feel sympathy for Anderson. The bastard had clearly gone to hell and back and if Sherlock was truly honest with himself, he believed that Anderson had deserved everything he had been through.

But the way his body trembled, and he kept his head bowed, refusing to even raise his head, let alone make eye contact with anybody, Sherlock found himself feeling something close to pity. And it unsettled him.

Anderson didn't deserve his compassion.

Mycroft stepped closer to Anderson, who heard his footsteps, and his whole form was suddenly wrecked with sobs.

“Prisoner Eight Four,” Mycroft snapped, and Anderson's reaction was instant. He literally cowered away from the cold voice he knew only to well, covering his head with his hands, and whimpering softly. He appeared to be trying to make himself invisible, like a frightened, trapped, animal.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to block this out. He couldn't deal with this. Not now, not today.

_Not ever._

“What...” He managed, in a tiny voice, and then cleared his throat, glancing at Mycroft momentarily. “What are you doing?”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, commandingly. “Come.”

Sherlock didn't move. He seemed rooted to the spot as he gazed down at the devastated figure grovelling at his brother's feet. He couldn't take his eyes off of what was left of the man that had haunted his dreams, and his memories, for so long. He felt John's worried gaze on him and he look over at his friend, meeting his look for a moment, before returning his attention to the thing on the floor.

He grimaced and suddenly he wasn't in that warehouse any more, with John and his brother. He was alone with Anderson, back in that house, on that night, all those weeks ago. The night that changed his life...

_This was wrong. He was in pain, could only see stars. He felt bare, didn't know why. His jeans were pulled down, they and his underwear pooling around his ankles. Why? His vision hurt, the pain was all consuming, and he couldn't think any longer. He must have hit his head on something. He knew he was in trouble now, knew he was defenceless, and Anderson seemed to have taken leave of all of his senses. He could hear Anderson behind him, muttering under his breath, the rustle of the man's clothes. And then, he was being moved, forced up on to his knees. He couldn't resist, couldn't focus on anything but the dull ache in his head. And then, Anderson had him by the hair, was hissing cruel words into his ear, and he couldn't move, couldn’t do anything, and then he felt Anderson, felt him right up against his backside, and he was scared._

Sherlock was staring, eyed wide, at the creature in front of him. Mycroft, realising his brother was stuck where he was, moved to stand beside Sherlock, and then nodded to Anderson's shrivelled form.

“Here he is, Sherlock. Right in front of you. Now, explain to me again, how this is the man you fear so much?”

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly.

_“Oh Jesus, you're so tight!” He was being pinned, he couldn't move. Anderson had hold of him so tightly, grunting in pleasure with every brutal thrust. Every movement by Anderson was tearing him apart a little more, not just his body, but his very soul. Anderson was destroying him, and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it. He was helpless. Worthless. Anderson laughed in his ear, relishing in the power he had over him. “Tell me what it feels like to have me fucking you, freak?”_

“Sherlock?” Came John's concerned voice, and Sherlock's eyes snapped open once more. He met John's gaze. “You're okay,” John reassured him. “I'm right here.”

Sherlock felt an overwhelming gratitude to his friend in that moment. Someone there was on his side. 

He could face this.

He looked back toward his brother, who was watching him closely.

“This is the man you allowed yourself into Moriarty's power for?” Mycroft continued. “I thought I was doing you a favour, removing Anderson from your life, freeing you from him and the memory of what he did to you, but I realise now that I made a mistake. Taking him away from your sight didn't free you from anything, it merely stole the chance for you to banish him, to get over what he did to you, once and for all.”

Sherlock looked down. The unrelenting force of the horrific memories was hitting him now. He couldn't stop them.

_He winced as he felt his body being manoeuvred around by Anderson to give him easier access to push even harder, even deeper, into Sherlock. Sherlock knew he was nothing now. He was Anderson's whore, and that was all he would ever be. And still, Anderson wouldn't stop taunting him, wouldn't leave him to fade away in peace. “How superior to me are you now? On your knees, with me inside you?” He was Anderson's to do with as Anderson pleased. His words were like poison. “Why don't you tell me what you can fucking deduce from that?” And then, his hair was grabbed, and he heard Anderson shout in his ear, before the wetness filled his insides. And he knew he would never be the same again..._

Sherlock whimpered, swaying slightly on the spot. Mycroft put his arm around him, steadying him, and then whispered in his ear. 

“I am going to give you back that opportunity, now, Sherlock. You can decide what happens to him next. He either returns with me, back to his prison or I can set him free, and he gets to live out the rest of his years in peace.” Sherlock met Mycroft's gaze, and Mycroft gave him a small nod of encouragement, before adding; “Has he suffered enough, Sherlock? Have you? You decide.”

There was complete silence in the room, as all pairs of eyes, excepting Anderson's, were trained on Sherlock.

Sherlock, however, continued to eye Mycroft, and then stared down at Anderson once more. John opened his mouth, but shut it again. What could he say? This was Sherlock's call, one he would have to make on his own. Nobody could make it for him. All they could do was watch.

And, sure enough, Sherlock approached Anderson slowly, and then knelt down beside him, taking in all of the broken man. The way his whole body trembled, how he kept his shaved head bowed, always submissive, and the small whimpers he let out with every breath.

Mycroft had truly destroyed him. He had taken his brother's rapist, and taken his own, brutal, revenge.

Sherlock, very softly, called the man by his name.

Anderson flinched violently, trying to draw himself away from Sherlock, keeping his head bowed. He seemed surprised to hear his name. He had after all be known as nothing but a number since the day he had arrived at the prison. 

Did he even still recognise his name?

Had he been driven insane? It was possible. The last time Sherlock had seen him, he had already nearly snapped. It wouldn't have taken much.

Sherlock frowned, and then spoke up again. “Look at me, Anderson.” And when again, there was no response, Sherlock urged him: “I want you to see me. Know me. And remember what you did to me.”

After a moment's hesitation, Anderson obeyed. He lifted his head, a movement that apparently took a lot of mental effort for him, and his eyes locked with Sherlock's momentarily. Those eyes then widened with shocked recognition.

Anderson shook his head, tears welling up, and tried to pull away from Sherlock. 

“No,” he whimpered. “No.” He resembled a terrified animal, trapped in the glare of the headlights. “Please...”

Sherlock kept his voice calm. “Anderson...”

But Anderson was gone, lost in his terror. Very soon, he was openly sobbing, evidently not hearing a word Sherlock said. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” He repeated, like a mantra.

Sherlock continued to stare down at his one time abuser, at the mess of a man he had been turned into, and he managed to keep his emotions contained safely below the surface. He reached out awkwardly, as if he couldn't make up his mind whether to touch Anderson or not, but stopped when he saw the pathetic man go into spasms of terror.

And then, he pulled away.

John felt like he was holding his breath. He truly wasn't sure what Sherlock's choice would be. Sherlock was not a cruel person, but Anderson was the cause of all of his agony, his fears, and the reason why he had been put through such an ordeal at the hands of his brother and Moriarty.

If Sherlock refused to forgive him, and left him to suffer for the rest of his days, though John would not agree with him, he absolutely wouldn't be able to blame him.

Finally, Sherlock stood again, drawing himself up to his full height, before facing Mycroft once more.

“I want you to let him go,” he stated, his voice shaking slightly. “Enough is enough.”

John closed his eyes. He knew how just how much pain it would have caused Sherlock to come to that decision, and he had never admired his friend's strength of character more.

Mycroft, for his part, seemed similarity impressed. He smiled at Sherlock, and then nodded. 

“As you wish, brother.”

Sherlock was visibly trembling as he gaped at his brother. Then, he looked away quickly, heading for the door, with Mycroft and John following after him quickly.

“Wait, Sherlock.”

At Mycroft's call, one of his men immediately stepped between Sherlock and the door, baring his way. Sherlock stopped, and then turned and fixed Mycroft with a nasty look.

“Are we done?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, I think so. Thank you for your help, Sherlock. Would you like a lift back-”

“I prefer to walk,” Sherlock cut across him, quickly. He didn't seem surprised that Mycroft was behaving so nonchalantly. That was the Holmes way, after all.

Mycroft nodded calmly. “Of course. Take care then, Sherlock.” He gestured, and his suit quickly stepped aside, staring straight ahead. Mycroft then lowered his voice. “And you did well today, brother.”

The deadly look Sherlock gave him then was enough to make John squirm inwardly. 

Mycroft, though, didn't seem concerned.

“And you'll leave me alone now?” Sherlock asked him, quietly. “Let me get on with my life the way I want to?

“If that is what you want,” Mycroft replied. “Though I'll never be too far away of course. For your own safety.”

Sherlock gaped at him for a moment. “ _My own safety,_ ” he repeated, quietly. And then, he laughed loudly, and coldly. The sound ripped through John like a knife, his blood turned to ice, and he suddenly felt sickened.

And he knew that he hated Mycroft.

The elder Holmes, meanwhile, was now glaring back at his brother. “Go home, Sherlock.” With some disdain, Mycroft added, “Have Mrs Hudson make you a nice cup of tea.”

Sherlock gave his brother one last incomprehensible stare, and then with his hands in his pockets, he took his leave. He didn't look back. 

After watching Sherlock go, John turned on Mycroft, his anger evident. “Do you know what, Mycroft? Even for you, this was cold. What you've done here today could have-”

Mycroft frowned. He didn't want to hear another word. “I did what I had to do, John,” he told him. “I think I know what is best for my own brother.” John glowered, despising him for his arrogance but the doctor had the good sense to leave his feelings to himself. Mycroft indicated to the door. “It's up to you to finish putting him back together now, John. Perhaps it would be sensible to go after him?”

John's glare intensified. And then, without even bothering to look at Mycroft again, never mind saying goodbye, John was moving past Mycroft, and away, legging it after Sherlock.

Mycroft watched him go, and then turned to his nearest aid. “Prepare the van for Moran's trip to Heathrow. I will be accompanying him, to ensure he gets where he needs to go.”

“Yes sir,” the man replied at once, before pointing at Anderson, still slumped down on the floor, his head in his hands. “And what about the other prisoner?”

The look on Mycroft's face was unreadable. “Send for a car to take him to hospital and see that he is looked after, before his release.”

The man in black nodded, already moving toward Anderson to carry out his orders. 

Mycroft turned his back on Anderson, and looked back toward the door.

Very quietly, he whispered. “You'll be alright now, Sherlock,” before walking toward the exit. 

It was time to move on. Moran, and in turn Moriarty, was waiting. And Mycroft had work to do.

XXX

Sherlock, meanwhile, strode on, wrapping his scarf further around his neck, trying to keep out the cold.

Although, he knew that the temperature wasn't the reason he was so angry, or indeed, shaking.

He had never felt so angry, so used. All of his emotions were swirling within him. The pain of what his own brother had done to him, and being forced to face Anderson once more, and making a decision that had ruffled him to his very core.

He had to get away from there.

_“Sherlock!”_

Hearing his own name though, shouting so desperately, made him pause, and he looked back over his shoulder.

John was running to catch up with him, frantically calling his name and pleading with him to wait. With an angry snarl, Sherlock whirled around. “What is it, John? I just want to get away from here.” His eyes narrowed as he looked back at the factory in the distance. “And away from my brother.”

John nodded. “I don't blame you for that. But Sherlock, I wanted you to know that I think Mycroft was trying to help you-”

Sherlock's eyes burned. “He locked me in a mental institution, John. His idea of helping differates somewhat from mine.” Sherlock gestured furiously. “If he thinks that giving me power back with Anderson will make up for any-”

“I agree with you, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, desperately. “I wouldn't forgive him either! He used you in his sick games, and he can rot in hell for what he did to you, as far as I'm concerned.” Somewhat nervously, John reached out and took Sherlock's hand. “But none of that changes the fact that, with Anderson, you did the right thing. You proved that you’re better than him, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glanced down at the hand holding his own, and then back up to John's hopeful gaze.

“There is some peace now,” he muttered, and he did speak with the air of a man who had had a great weight lifted. “I know what happened to Anderson, know that he suffered, but have now given him the chance to move on.” Sherlock looked down. “Maybe I can finally do the same.”

John gave him a small smile. “Yes, maybe you can.” He squeezed Sherlock's hand. “And, well, this thing with you and me, whatever it is, I don't know how it started, or where it will go-”

“Not even I know that,” Sherlock mused, more to himself.

John chuckled. “Yeah, not even you.” He gazed into Sherlock's confused glare. “I meant what I said earlier. I love you so damn much, and am willing to find out if you feel the same way.” He swallowed hard, as he added; “We're worth a shot Sherlock, aren't we?

Sherlock regarded him for a few seconds, and then, very slowly, he nodded. “Yes John, I think we are.” Moving so fast, he suddenly closed the distance between himself and John, and reached out gently with his hand to caress the other man's cheek lovingly. He leaned forward then, lowering his hand to instead grip onto John's arm, to hold him still. Apparently uncaring who could be around to see them, he swiftly placed his lips against John's and, with a sigh, kissed him passionately.

Very soon, John was returning the kiss, and both men suddenly had their arms around each other, holding on to the other as if for dear life. 

After a few perfect moments, Sherlock pulled away, as suddenly as he had begun the embrace, leaving John gasping in desire from the sudden and quite unexpected perfect kiss. As John looked on, Sherlock's hand was groping around in his pocket, and then with a grunt of triumph, his hand re-emerged; now holding his mobile phone.

John's brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“I'm calling Mycroft.”

“Why?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I'm going to tell him that I don't want to be disturbed until I contact him again. Or followed. Which means he can call his little shadows off until further notice.” Sherlock's intense eyes bored into John's. “We're going away John, just you and me. If that's okay with you?”

John couldn't help but smile. “Yes, Sherlock. That's okay by me.”

Sherlock nodded, and then placed his phone to his ear.

_Just the two of them._

That did sound good.

XXX

The mobile phone was ringing repeatedly, discarded and left behind by its owner, in the abandoned Mercedes police van. The only man left there to hear the ring tilted his head slightly, and found himself humming the familiar tune. 

He thought for a moment, and then it dawned on him what the theme was. _Doctor Who._ Of course. He'd have to replace Staying Alive with that. It was perfect.

He smiled knowingly as he stepped forward, then frowning slightly as some dirt rubbed onto his otherwise immaculate Vivienne Westwood suit. Brushing it away, he then crouched down, feeling into the shadows, and sneering when his hand clasped on what he had been searching for, and he pulled free the handset from where it was lodged beneath a panel. Glancing down at it, he pressed the button to look at who the last “missed call” had been from, and his lips curled up into a cruel smirk when the name “Sherlock” flashed up onto the screen. His finger lingered over the “return call” button for a moment, merely wanting to hear the other's voice, or at least agitate Sherlock, but he knew that would be insensible and somewhat foolhardy. 

To announce that something was wrong to Sherlock this early in his plan was not a good idea. He needed some time, and that meant some distance away from Sherlock. That knowledge made him sad, he would miss the other man terribly, but it was the way it had to be. If he wanted the game to move on to the second stage...

It had been surprisingly too easy, he had expected better, considering whom he had been dealing with. While the little “top secret” meeting had gone on in the factory, he had simply swapped some of the government men for his own, and by the time the target had realised something wasn't right, realised that he had been too over confident, it was far too late, and his men had swarmed on that van.

Interrupting his thoughts, he heard the footsteps approaching and he tensed, his hand tightening on the phone.

“Jim?”

Moriarty's smile widened. Straightening back up to his full height, he turned to face a very nervous looking Sebastian Moran. He plunged his right hand deep into his pocket and bounced on his heels slightly.

“Seb, it's good to see you again.” He winked, as he asked; “You're okay, I take it?”

Moran nodded quickly. “I'm fine, thanks to you.” He coughed uncomfortably. “I just wanted to say, thank you for coming for me. I'd have completely understood if you'd left me to rot.”

Jim chuckled. “Why would I have done that, Seb? We're friends, you and I.” He raised an eyebrow. “Aren't we?”

Moran almost fell over himself in his desperation to agree with Moriarty.

“Yes, yes. Of course, Sir. You know I would never have said or done anything to give you away...”

“Of course.” Moriarty replied simply. “I trust you, Seb.” He took a step closer. “If I didn't, you'd be dead right now, wouldn't you?”

Moran's smile faded. “I'd have never had betrayed you, Jim. No matter what they'd have done-”

Moriarty raised his hand, and closed his eyes, apparently having heard enough. “You're still alive, Seb. That should tell you everything you need to know about how much I trust you.”  
Moran let out a deep sigh of relief, and smiled gratefully at Moriarty. The other man returned the smile, and then placed a hand on Moran's shoulder. “I need loyal men around me, Seb. Men like you are hard to come by these days. Men who understand honesty, and loyalty and even though you did fail me, and let Sherlock get away...” He leaned in even closer, his lips touching the other man's. “I know that you will do everything in your power to put that right. Won't you, my dear?”

Moran trembled slightly. “I'll do anything you say,” he breathed.

Moriarty's grin was almost feral. He pressed his lips against Sebastian's and kissed him gently. Moran was too stunned to kiss back. Finally, Moriarty pulled away and his gaze met that of a now surprised Moran, and Jim actually laughed softly.

“You're a good man, Seb;” Jim told him, quietly. “A good friend.” He caressed Moran's face, almost like a lover. Moran closed his eyes, leaning in to the touch, and breathing loudly.

Moriarty grinned, and then stopped, moving backwards.

Sebastian watched him intently, still ruffled by Moriarty's unexpected tenderness. He had never behaved in such a way with him before.

Moran wasn't stupid, he knew it would be yet another manipulation. But in that moment, right after Moriarty had saved him from torture and torment at the hands of Mycroft Holmes, he didn't care. He needed Jim to be close.

And it was obvious why.

Sebastian Moran was in love with James Moriarty.

And Jim knew the truth. Probably knew before Moran did.

And Jim was smirking at Moran once more.

“We need to get moving, Seb.” Jim told him. “We can't stay in this place too long. I dealt with all their little toys, their little tracers, but they'll still be able to find us if we don't move on.”

Moran shrugged. “Let them come. The police?” He scoffed. “Idiots! They wouldn't be able to hold us anyway, not without-”

“There is still Sherlock,” Jim purred, fixing Moran with a warning glance. “Don't ever underestimate him.”

“After what we did to him?” Moran replied, distractedly. “He was a broken shell of what he once was! What can he do against the two of us, together?”

Moriarty merely looked on. His tone was cold now, detached. “He is my equal, Moran. My match. My nemesis. If one man can bring me down, it's him. When you disrespect Sherlock Holmes, you in turn disrespect me. I don't like it. Remember that, please?”

Moran's blood had turned to ice in his veins. Not trusting himself to be able to say anything without angering Jim further, he simply nodded.

Moriarty smiled. “That's better.” He gestured toward the identical Mercedes van to the one that Moran had originally been travelling in, the one that Moriarty and his men had intercepted. “Time to disappear, Colonel.”

Moran glanced down to the side, and then jerked his head.

“And what about him? Do we kill him, like all of his men?”

Moriarty turned to look in the direction Moran was indicating, and smiled. 

A body lay crumpled on the cold; stone ground beside the Mercedes they were about to make their escape in. The only sign that the figure was actually alive was the steady rise and fall of his chest. Moriarty approached cautiously, smirked and then bent down, rolling the prone body over on to its back.

Mycroft Holmes, unconscious and helpless, lay at his feet. There was an ugly cut on his forehead, and as he reached out to touch Mycroft, Jim grimaced when he felt the sticky, red blood covering his hair.

“He's hurt,” Jim said, with genuine concern. “I don't want him to die.” His eyes widened in anger as he looked up at Moran. “I need him alive!”

“He'll be fine,” Moran told him; “He just needs some care, we have doctors back at the refuge. We'll go straight there.”

This calmed Jim, and he nodded in appreciation. “That's good. Mycroft is going to be very useful to us, Seb. It's quite shocking actually, what some people will give me in exchange for him. Seems he's quite important...”

Moran laughed quietly. “He's definitely _useful_. Our very nation's security could be at risk here, Jim.”

Moriarty's eyes sparkled. “Oh, now that's _exciting_!” He giggled, in the way a child would, and then signalled to two men waiting near by. “Put him in the van,” he barked. “It's time for us all to go back underground. I've gotten too noisy recently, too many people know about me. Time to put a stop to that.” He placed his head on the side as he watched his men lifting Mycroft, to carry him to the van, and their get away. 

Moran nodded. “Let's disappear.”

Moriarty's smile was one of pure evil. “All of us.”

Making them all jump, the phone is Mycroft's pocket suddenly jumped into life again, this time notifying them of a text message. Moriarty hurriedly pulled out the phone, and then smirked when he saw who the message was from.

“Sherlock wants his big brother...” He purred.

“That's too bad,” Moran responded, the smugness evident in his tone.

Mycroft pressed the button, and read the text, his eyes lighting up.

_'Just to let you know, as you can't be bothered to answer your phone, I want you to leave John and I alone. Don't try to contact me again. When I need you, I'll be in touch. SH.'_

“Not a problem.” Jim mused, and then shook his head incredulously. “Silly Sherlock. Never did know what was good for you...” His eyes flashed. “I'll see you again soon, sweetheart. You enjoy John in my absence.” A pause, and then he added; “While you can...”

He turned Mycroft's phone off, and then threw it to the ground, grimacing as the screen smashed.

He patted Moran's arm.

“Let's go.”

With a spring in both their steps, they followed their men to the van, and were helped inside.

Once safely inside the vehicle, Moriarty looked down at Mycroft once more, his hands now tied painfully behind his back, his eyes still tightly closed, and he grinned.

_'Round Two to me, Sherlock...'_

He would allow them a break; give Sherlock some time to recover. Very soon, it would be time to start round three. He would be ready.

He just hoped Sherlock and John would be too.

-The End-


End file.
